


Reckless Mistakes

by Leryline



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: AltMal, Altair is an asshole, Alternate Universe, EzioLeo - Freeform, High School AU, M/M, ShaunDes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:21:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 36,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leryline/pseuds/Leryline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mistakes seem to run in the family. Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad has made many reckless mistakes in his time, but sleeping with that one guy from that one nightclub had to be one of the biggest. Desmond Miles happens to make mistakes over and over again, landing him in detention every time. Ezio Auditore... well, he just makes his mistakes on purpose. Now they're all stuck at the same high school with a bunch of teachers that are making their lives very difficult.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Happened Last Night

**I: Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad**

It had been a long night.

Altaïr woke up in his bed like any other morning, despite the fact that he felt as if he’d been hit by a truck. The sunlight was like stadium lights, and as much as he wanted to roll over and go back to sleep he knew he should get up.

And so get up he did, checking that he had pants on before wandering any further. He knew that when he woke up feeling like this that some serious shit had most likely gone down the night before, and it was always good to check if you had pants on. He was met with the sight of a college guy lying on the floor of his apartment face-down in a puddle of what seemed to be a mix of vomit and whiskey, and as he rolled onto his back Altaïr saw that his left arm was taped to the floor by about a dozen strips of duct tape. Altaïr’s head beat like a drum, his vision fizzing dizzily as he struggled to keep his balance. He felt like absolute shit. Looking around, he saw nobody. Not a soul was in his apartment… well, none that he knew, anyway. There were about fifty people alone in the living room, either completely passed out or well on the way to being so. There was a mix of scantily-clad girls in leather boots and college boys wearing their pants on their heads. Streamers were everywhere, and Altaïr suspected that half of them were toilet paper; taking a look in the bathroom proved his theory correct. Some girl was vomiting into the toilet and the smell was atrocious.

He dragged himself to the kitchen and messily poured himself a glass of water and set about dissolving whatever it was that his friends had given him for hangovers. His amber eyes flicked over the commune of drunken high school kids who were slowly coming to, wondering where they were and how the fuck they got there.

The whole place was cleared out by noon, giving Altaïr the joyous task of cleaning up the mess that was left. He first set about tearing down the toilet paper.

As he cleaned he tried to remember what had happened that night. He remembered going clubbing with his friends, and he also remembered bringing the party back to his apartment… he also vaguely remembered something in between, but he couldn’t say what.

Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad was certainly not your average frat boy. He was hardly a boy, being much more of a man, with sandy-brown hair and molten gold eyes. He had a thin scar running over his full, Syrian lips and he always seemed to have stubble, but never a beard. He was handsome and he’d had more girlfriends than he’d care to admit, and even more one-night stands. He didn’t mind, though. He couldn’t even remember their names.

Altaïr also lived alone. His parents had died in a car accident just after he was born, and he had no relations that he knew of. He’d been raised in an orphanage and had raised enough money to go to high school through cage fighting and doing menial tasks that required climbing tall structures.

The fact that Altaïr lived alone became very relevant when he walked back into his bedroom and saw a man lying in his bed.

A man.

A naked man.

An _attractive_ naked man.

Altaïr’s hand went to the back of his neck as he sifted through his deck of memories.

Ah. That’s right.

 

_The music pumped so loud that the Altaïr had to half-shout over it just to be heard. He was having a shit time, if he was going to be honest with himself. There were loads of women, that was true, but the ones who didn’t have boyfriends were making out with other guys anyway. Altaïr could have easily wooed any one of them – boyfriend or no – into his bed, but as soon as he approached a girl she disappeared. Eventually, as he got into the swing of things, he found that his advances became more successful._  
He had decided to go out with his cousins, Ezio Auditore and Desmond Miles. Ezio was dripping with females, as usual, and Desmond had retired to the bar where he was chatting with the bartender about how to mix martinis. Altaïr was on his own now.  
It was then he saw an empty stool at one of the tables between the bar and the dance floor. He ordered a drink and headed towards it. 

_He didn’t bother to ask if the seat was taken – by the look on the man’s face it obviously wasn’t, and the music was too loud to ask from that distance anyway. For anyone to hear you properly you’d have to be practically kissing their ear._

_“You look like you’re having a good a time as I am,” Altaïr told the man. He had black hair and deep brown eyes, dusky skin and a tuft of black hair on his chin. Altaïr noticed that one of his arms had been amputated just below the shoulder, and the sleeve of the man’s shirt was pinned up. “I’m Altaïr,” he added, holding out his hand._

_Seeing as the man only had one hand, Altaïr would have expected him to have put down his beer and shaken it. Instead the man took a long sip of his beer and didn’t pay the slightest mind to Altaïr’s hand._

_“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?” the Syrian asked, smiling despite himself._

_“No,” the man replied in a voice pleasing to Altaïr’s ears. “Why would I give my name to a stranger who decided to intrude so rudely upon my company? For all I know you could be a serial killer.”_

_Altaïr was glad when his drink came; he slugged it back in one go, earning an impressed look from his companion – or maybe it was disgust. It was too dark to tell, and the flashing lights didn’t help. Golden eyes met brown ones, and Altaïr leaned across the table until he was practically kissing the other man’s ear._

_“Want to join me outside?”_

_He didn’t really expect the man to take him up on his offer, but he did. Ezio saw him leaving and gestured to what seemed and sounded like half the club, thinking that Altaïr wanted to take the party home._

_And so the house party had begun, with thumping music and flashing lights and alcohol and streamers made from toilet paper. Altaïr’s liquor cabinet was being mercilessly raided by the mercenaries of the frat house, but by that point Altaïr was too busy to notice or care._

_He and his friend had slipped through the partying throng of people and to the back of the apartment. Altaïr had a firm hold on the one-armed man’s sleeve, and as soon as they were both in his room he kicked the door shut and flicked the lock._

_They slammed against the wall in a mash of lips and a tangle of tongues and limbs, hands groping blindly and fingers fumbling with buttons and zippers. This man’s mouth was so hot and tasted so sweet – Altaïr couldn’t get enough. He had never felt this way before, and he was almost positive that it had nothing to do with the alcohol. But he was too drunk to tell. His strong hands tore open the front of the man’s shirt and he moved his mouth down his neck, sucking and biting and lapping with his tongue. He made sure to leave a mark… a nice dark hickey, perhaps, or a very obvious bite mark. As he roughly grabbed the man’s hips he heard him moan. It was a delightful, solid sound that ached with lust and was almost as wet as Altaïr’s tongue. With a wide turn Altaïr spun his companion around, giving him time enough to throw his single arm around his shoulders before they went crashing down onto the bed._

_Altaïr had a bit of a bad habit of rutting like a bull until the bed was all but broken – ruined furniture had been the reason for more than a few breakups. He felt like that now, his mind overtaken by the sheer force of lust. The man below him was moaning and writhing, their skin slick and slippery. Altaïr lifted his legs, sinking his hips forward. He grunted._

_Suddenly the man’s eyes flashed, and with an unexpected burst of strength he flipped them both over so he was straddling Altaïr, who had landed unceremoniously on his back. He could barely think straight when the man rode him like he was, rolling his hips and clenching his muscles. It caused every muscle in Altaïr’s body to tense, and as he thrust his hips up the man slammed down to meet him. Altaïr grabbed his hips and held them tight enough to leave bruises, hammering them down even harder as he slammed upwards. The man above him was moaning and panting, his erection raging between his legs. Altaïr’s mind had turned to water and was trickling out his ears with every blind thrust. He wasn’t sure if he was moaning or grunting – the only things he could hear were his own heartbeat and the man’s voice, murmuring through his moans._

_Suddenly Altaïr slammed the man’s hips down, burying himself inside his companion as he came with a loud hiss through clenched teeth. He felt the thick ropes of his partner’s release land against the hard planes of his chest, burning like fingers of lava. Every nerve was tingling, every pore as sensitive as possible. He felt the man above him rise before he slid down Altaïr’s chest and dragged his tongue up the traces of his own release, keeping eye contact all the while. There was something instantly arousing about his gaze… the sultriness shot straight to Altaïr’s cock. His tongue continued, tracing a long trail up between Altaïr’s pectorals and throat, about his jawline and over his chin, ending with a salty kiss upon his lips. “So,” panted Altaïr with a grin partly hidden by the darkness. “Now that you know I’m not a serial killer, what’s your name?”_

_“Malik,” the man replied drowsily as he lay down beside Altaïr. “Malik Al-Sayf.”_

 

Altaïr almost groaned. Being severely hung over and remembering a one-night stand was probably not the best way to start any morning. But… he hadn’t made a bad choice. He smirked. The guy wasn’t ugly, that was for sure.

As he was thinking, the man – Malik – woke. Altaïr wasn’t gay. Besides… sleeping with a random guy while you’re drunk doesn’t make you camp, right?

Wrong.

As Malik rolled over and their eyes met, Altaïr felt a shock of electricity shoot straight to his groin. He was horrified to feel himself react, and thanked Allah that he had the heavy denim of his jeans keeping him down. The man’s – Malik’s – eyes had a certain shine to them that made Altaïr want to melt into the floor. It reached him even though his hangover-clouded mind, and he found that Malik could remedy him better than any supplements ever could.

Without even an exchange of words, Altaïr put one knee up on the bed as Malik sat up. The black-haired man, who Altaïr assumed to be a little older than himself, grabbed the front of his waistband and, with a surprising show of strength, yanked the man down.

Again, Altaïr ended up on his back. He didn’t like being on his back most of the time, but this time was different. With every girl he slept with he’d been the dominant one, making them mewl and squirm and beg. He liked that – no, he loved it. But there was something undeniably sexy about the lean, muscled man who sat astride him, one hand on his chest. There was something dominant about him… something that made Altaïr want to fuck him all over again.

Malik slid down between his legs, nuzzling at the rock-hard bulge between Altaïr’s legs. He undid the zipper and slid the jeans down his companion’s thighs to his knees and began to tongue at the erection that had sprung up right before his eyes.

“Like a puppy, aren’t you?”

It was the first time Altaïr had heard Malik speak while he was sober. It was even better than when he was drunk. He bucked his hips involuntarily, biting down on the back of his hand to stifle his moan. “Shit –,” he sat up, rolling Malik onto his back before pushing him onto his stomach. Altaïr lifted the man’s hips, sliding his thick nine fingers over the hard cords of muscles, and ground against the cleft with a hiss.

With only spit to guide the process, he hammered into Malik with a violence he had never felt before. Just like last night, every nerve was more sensitive than usual. Malik seemed to be weathered, though, and he didn’t scream or cry as some of the girls did. He just made hoarse noises, his hips twitching spasmodically. It took less than five minutes for them both to finish, and Altaïr let his head tip back with a sigh.

Malik stood first, dressing and leaving with only a glance and a little half-smile at Altaïr, who lay with one arm behind his head. He thought he heard something like ‘novice’ leave the older man’s lips as he left, but he couldn’t be quite sure. Picking himself up, Altaïr went to shower.


	2. Malik Al-Sayf Isn't Gay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik tries to convince himself that - just because he slept with a guy - he isn't gay.

**II: Malik Al-Sayf**

Malik Al-Sayf wasn’t gay.

Or at least… he _thought_ he wasn’t. He had been dragged to a club with his brother and his brother’s friends, having foolishly promised to be their designated driver. Malik cared for his little brother more than anything in the world – even, at times, himself – so he didn’t fully regret the decision. The thought of a drunken Kadar driving was enough to make his stomach churn.

He had met a man at the club – an ignorant, stubborn man, he could tell. He knew as soon as he laid eyes on him, and when they started talking his theory was as good as proven. Liquid-gold eyes watched him and scarred lips smiled at him, and when he felt hot lips against his ear over the pounding of the music and his heartbeat, he knew that he might as well give in. He hadn’t been drunk, only having had a beer to keep his annoyance down, but he could tell the other man – Altaïr, as he’d introduced himself – was near drunk out of his mind, even though he didn’t quite act it. Malik could smell it on his breath and hear it in his tones.

The sex had been magnificent. Malik had never been with a man before (at least not while sober), but he’d often wondered what it felt like and he had certainly not been disappointed. Malik wasn’t the type to lie down and let his partner do all the work… mostly because he wasn’t the submissive type. He enjoyed taking control of the ignorant man who had taken him back to his apartment, and enjoyed how Altaïr was still so zealous even when on his back.

When Malik woke up the next morning the first thing he thought of was his brother. How did Kadar get home? Was he all right? He reached down to his jeans and fished out his phone. Kadar was fine, it turned out, and sleeping off his hangover. Malik was so relieved that he fell asleep again.

When he woke for the second time he realised where he was and what had happened. He also realised that the ignorant, big-headed man from the night before was standing and looking at him, scratching his neck ponderously. Malik was seized by a sudden desire so fierce he feared that it would tear his guts apart.

This time was different, though – he was the one who had his head shoved into the pillows and his backside raised to accommodate the bull of a bedpartner he’d acquired. With each thrust he felt like he’d orgasmed, though when he finally came he could barely think, let alone see. He got up as soon as he could move properly, and left without regret. It hadn’t been the first time he’d had a one-night stand, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t Altaïr’s first time, either.

When he got home, Kadar was hooting out the window. Their parents had gone on a cruise, leaving Kadar – by then a freshman in high school – in Malik’s care. Malik had a job and a degree; he was a lecturer at one of the closer high schools, teaching both psychology and literature.

“Bro!” Kadar crooned from where he hung out the window. “The walk of shame! I thought adults didn’t do that!”

Malik wisely chose not to reply – he loved his brother, but sometimes he could be _really_ annoying. He was glad when the front door closed behind him – it was then his brother gallivanted down the stairs noisily, his blue eyes shining. Malik looked at him sparingly.

Kadar spun toward the kitchen, grinning silently. Malik grumbled to himself as he walked up the steps towards his bedroom.

When he got there he threw himself down onto his bed and stared at the ceiling for a few minutes. He then picked himself up and got into the shower.

He had found Altaïr’s surprise amusing when he had toppled him onto his back – it was true, doing things with only one arm was difficult, but he made up for his lost strength in the sheer power of his remaining arm. He fingered the stub darkly as the scalding water thundered against his back, unknotting the taut muscles of his shoulders. It had been years ago… Kadar had been rendered vegetative and only by some miracle has he woken up. It was an even bigger miracle that he could talk and walk and laugh. Malik had only lost an arm.

Sighing, he rested his forehead against the cool tiling of the shower wall. His mind once again flickered to Altaïr. Of course… of course Malik Al-Sayf wasn’t gay.


	3. The King of Swords in a Suit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Altaïr gets a shock when he turns up at school.

**III: Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad**

“I saw you leaving with that man last night, _cugino_!”

Altaïr could have hit him.

“Man? Really? I didn’t – I mean I just –,” Desmond stuttered. He regained his head a little and leaned in. “I didn’t think you were gay.”

“I’m not,” Altaïr told them honestly. Ezio was grinning at him and Desmond was watching him warily. “I was drunk out of my mind, ok?”

Ezio laughed again, leaning back against the wall. The three of them were sitting on a roof watching the city in the early afternoon sun. It was only a matter of time before Altaïr shoved Ezio’s sorry backside of the side of a building.

“Our _cuginetto_ seems to be somewhere else, eh, Desmond?” Ezio’s dark eyes glittered, and Altaïr added another strike to the board. Desmond glanced at him dryly before replying.

“And what were you doing last night, huh?” he asked pointedly. “You might’ve had sixteen girls hanging off you, but I didn’t see you at all at Altaïr’s apartment.”

Ezio scoffed. “ _Sì_ , like you can talk! You spent most of the night chatting to the damn _barista_!”

Altaïr left the two to their squabbling. Ezio wasn’t wrong – he was somewhere else. Smiling to himself, he let Malik pass out of his mind. He probably wouldn’t see the man again, and he wasn’t sorry.

“Hey – look,” he said suddenly, pointing down. Ezio and Desmond peered over the edge of the building. The gleaming dome of a head was unmistakable – the groomed, ink-black locks of the other head were also completely familiar. Ezio let out a low snarl and Desmond frowned.

“ _Avanti_!” Ezio had already begun down the building, sliding and dropping and grasping. Altaïr quickly took over, Desmond somewhat lagging behind. Cesare Borgia had been the cause of Ezio’s temper for the last year or so, and Robert de Sablé caused Altaïr’s own blood to boil. The three of them crossed paths in an alley, well away from the public. Altaïr flexed his hands and Ezio’s mouth was set into a scowl.

“Hey, _bastardi_!” Ezio barked. Cesare and Robert turned around, their gaggle following suit. “ _Che cosa vuoi_?”

Cesare sneered at him. He was a violent young man, was Cesare Borgia, with a severe lack of morals. Robert was just as bad, but looked about twice as large and with a head like the sun.

Altaïr wasn’t sure who threw the first punch, but soon the alleyway was full of flying fists and kicking feet. 

“So,” Altaïr began as he brought his knee up to collide with the forehead of one of Sablé’s men with a sickening crunch. “So what if I slept with a guy? It was a one-night stand, for fuck’s sake.”

“ _Anche così_ ,” Ezio replied as he punched another man. “Do you like him?” he ducked nimbly as a punch was aimed at his head, bringing his sharp elbow up into his assailant’s belly and sending him sprawling to the ground.

“No!” Altaïr denied a bit too quickly, causing Ezio to glance at him amusedly. Altaïr punched blindly and angrily, narrowly missing Ezio’s head. Luckily Ezio was almost as fast as he was and ducked before he could get hit.

“It sounds like you do, _bugiardo_ ,” Ezio laughed as he kicked someone between the thighs. “You don’t need to hide it – more girls for me!”

The fight was over almost as soon as it had begun – Altaïr swore he was about to knock the stuffing out of Robert de fucking Sablé, but when he turned around he had disappeared. Ezio had left Cesare with a bloody nose, and Desmond had kindly taken down five wingmen.

“Well,” Desmond stated, “that was nice, but I’d better get back before my dad kills me.”

Ezio nodded cordially, not at all noticing his bloodied lip. “Now that you mention it… I have somewhere I need to be.” He smiled at them both before turning and stepping over the twitching bodies as he walked away. “ _Arriverderci, perdenti_!”

Desmond sighed and shook his head. _Always the sensible one_ , Altaïr thought. Even though Desmond had a short temper (just like the rest of them), he always thought things through… unless he was under pressure.

Desmond had gone back to his car, leaving Altaïr standing alone in the alleyway surrounded by bodies.

He got back to his apartment at about four in the afternoon. It was Sunday and he had school the next day, so he decided to eat and go up to the roof. When he got there he went straight for the punching bag, binding his knuckles so they didn’t split. By the time evening fell he was sweaty and tired and happy. Malik had all but passed out of his mind, and he showered again and fell into bed without a second thought.

 

“Hey, _cuginetto_!”

Fuckin’ Ezio.

“How the fuck did you get into my apartment?”

“Keys.”

Altaïr flung back the covers and got to his feet, almost clubbing Ezio around the head in the process.

“ _Andiamo, andiamo_!” Ezio called as he jogged out of the apartment. “Desmond is waiting!”

Altaïr dressed silently, brooding. He didn’t want to go to school – it was his first day back for the new semester and he wasn’t feeling up to this shit at all.

He met his cousins out the front of the block and almost collapsed into the back seat.

“He’s excited.”

“ _Sì_ , obviously.”

They pulled up outside the school minutes before they were due in class. All three headed off in their different directions, Altaïr vowing that if he saw Ezio again he’d kick him so hard that he’d become infertile.

“ _Yebnen kelp_.”

The day flew by so fast Altaïr lost track of time more than once – he remembered the two fistfights he’d gotten into, but the staff was so used to him getting into fights that they didn’t even bother punishing him anymore.

It was his last lecture of the day, and he sauntered into the lecture hall with barely a care in the world. Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad may have been muscled and may have had more girlfriends than he could count on his fingers and toes, but he wasn’t stupid.

So he wasn’t stupid: that much was true, but when he looked languidly towards the lecturer his tongue almost dropped out of his head and his dick almost leaped right out of his jeans.

Malik Al-Sayf, the man who had been so adamantly riding his dick not two nights before, was dressed in a suit and a pair of glasses and was standing before the class with an even, judging expression.

If Altaïr had not known Malik already, he would feel slightly intimidated by him. The intelligence in the one-armed man’s eyes was so fierce that it almost seemed to burn. Altaïr stopped where he stood, students milling about him to find their seats. Malik’s eyes met his, and for a moment they went blank. An instant later, though, his eyes passed on as if he had never seen the golden-eyed Syrian before.

Altaïr sunk down into his seat, his friend Maria Thorpe sitting down beside him. Now, Altaïr didn’t have many female friends, but Maria Thorpe was so outgoing and independent that he knew he couldn’t fuck her if he tried. She was a pretty, fair-faced girl with dark hair and bright eyes and a broad smile. She was flat-chested and thin, lean with muscle. She and Altaïr had a lot in common, but no matter how hard he tried to get in her pants she wouldn't have any of it.

“You look pale,” she hissed in her English accent. “Are you ok?”

“Fine,” Altaïr assured her. “Just great.”

And so the lecture begun as it would have any other day, except for the fact that Altaïr was too shocked to see Malik that his dick stayed where it was – even though he thought that Malik in a suit was the goddamn sexiest thing he’d ever seen in his entire fucking life.

“ _Zarba_ ,” he muttered to himself. His eyes were intent on Malik’s face the entire time, and he didn’t hear a word he said. When the lecture had finally ended, Altaïr stood and, instead of leaving, descended the auditorium’s steps straight towards Malik.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Italian:**  
>  _cugino_ = cousin  
>  _cuginetto_ = little cousin  
>  _si_ = yes  
>  _avanti_ = onwards, forwards  
>  _bastardi_ = bastards  
>  che cosa vuoi? = what do you want?  
>  _anche così_ = even so  
>  _bugiardo_ = liar  
>  _arriverderci, perdenti_ = see you later, losers  
>  _andiamo_ = come on
> 
> **Arabic:**  
>  _yebnen kelp_ = son of a bitch  
>  _zarba_ = shit


	4. Detention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmond manages to land himself in detention... again.

**IV: Desmond Miles**

 

Desmond Miles hated him.

There was nothing more he hated than Shaun Hastings, and he was sure the feeling was mutual. Desmond was a tolerant guy, or so he’d like to have thought, but Shaun Hastings was pushing it where no man had pushed before.

It had all started in freshman year when Desmond had walked into his history class. He liked history and had done well at it in middle school, but as soon as he saw his professor he knew he was going to have a shit time.

Desmond was tall-ish, with dark hair and sun-kissed skin. Like his cousins Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad and Ezio Auditore, he had a thin scar running down over his lips. He habitually wore grey jeans and a white hoodie. He had a nice facial structure, and he sure wasn’t unattractive, but he’d never had much luck with girls. His first (and last, he grudgingly guessed) girlfriend, Lucy, had moved out of town at the end of last year and he hadn’t heard from her since. He’d gone into a chronic state of depression and Ezio and Altaïr seemed to be the only ones who could shake it off him.

Desmond liked his cousins. They could both be major pains in the ass, but they were good guys all the same. Altaïr had a brain the size of a planet and an ego to match, whereas Ezio concentrated more on girls and partying than anything else.

Desmond preferred to focus on school. He liked learning, but by God, Shaun Hastings was making it an effort.

Shaun Hastings was Desmond’s history professor. He was sure that Shaun hated him back, too; he could see it every time their eyes met. He wasn’t quite sure why – he hadn’t done anything wrong, had he? He hadn’t wronged Shaun in any way… he soon moved past the bafflement and settled down in his bed of hatred.

Shaun made a point of making fun of Desmond whenever he got the chance. He made it sound as if Desmond was stupid, so much so that Desmond was beginning to second-guess his own intelligence.

And so Desmond had decided to purposefully fail Shaun’s class, just to piss him off.

And piss him off it did. Shaun knew that Desmond was clever, and if the boy had been failing because he was stupid he would have been delighted. Instead Desmond was doing it on purpose, which annoyed Shaun more than salted tea.

Shaun put Desmond into detention whenever he could. Each time he’d make Desmond do something even more stupid than the last time, and he’d laugh internally. Desmond wanted to do nothing more than knock those glasses off his orange-tufted head.

“Miles, my desk,” Shaun told him after his class had finished. Desmond stood up grudgingly, having heard the line fare too many times.

“You failed your test again last term, so I’m going to have to give you this.” Shaun held up a slip of paper which Desmond snatched, his mouth set and jaw locked. Without a word he turned and stalked out of the classroom, not bothering to even look at the paper before he folded it up and shoved it in his pocket.

 

That afternoon he reconvened with his cousins. Ezio lazed on his couch and Altaïr sat with his elbows braced on his knees and his face downturned. He was thinking and certainly somewhere other than Desmond’s living room.

Meanwhile, Desmond stood and begun to pace, lashing out and releasing all his hatred for his teacher.

“He sounds like a real _figlio di puttana,_ ” Ezio replied, putting his hands behind his head.

“He is,” Desmond grumbled as he continued to pace.

“Be careful, _cuginetto,_ you’ll put tracks into the carpet.”

Desmond sat down and fished out the crumpled slip of paper from his pocket. It was, as he’d guessed, a detention slip.

“Tomorrow, an hour and a half. Fuck.” He crushed the paper in his fist and then threw it to the ground. “Why does this always happen to _me?_ ”

Ezio’s eyebrows turned up. “He probably just hates you.”

Desmond scoffed. “He does.” He had noticed that Altaïr hadn’t moved. “Hey, man, you all right?” he asked. Altaïr looked up sharply, leaning back.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

Desmond narrowed his eyes. “Right.”

 

The next day, after school, Desmond made his way towards the detention room. Shaun was there waiting for him, his expression to opposite of amused.

“I trust you know why you’re here, Mr Miles,” Shaun said evenly.

“Yes, sir,” Desmond replied sulkily, letting his bag drop to the ground noisily beside his seat. “So, _sir_ , what do have planned for me today?”

Shaun wrinkled his nose irritably, pushing his glassed up his nose. “I do not appreciate your disrespect, Miles,” he snapped. “You’re going to write lines.”

Desmond almost laughed. “Lines?” he asked in disbelief. “What are we in, elementary school?”

Shaun shot him a withering glare. “Just get on with it.”

Desmond stood grudgingly, snatching up a piece of chalk from the tray beneath the board. The fuck – why did they even have blackboards anymore? Weren’t whiteboards the standard issue now? Or overhead projectors?

Still, he wanted to get this shit over with. “What do I write?”

Shaun pretended to think. “How about ‘I will not fail history?’”

Desmond eyed him over his shoulder and then turned and began the first line.

_I will not fail history…_

Desmond suddenly felt weird. He felt a heat spread up his back and he suppressed the urge to shiver. He realised that it was because Shaun was watching him. Of course he was… there was nothing else to look at… right?

Still, Desmond felt uncomfortable.

_I will not fail history…_

Desmond heard the sharp tap of the hard soles of Shaun’s shoes as he approached, looking up at the one-and-a-half lines of white chalk. His eyes flicked back to Desmond, who had a very curious expression on his face.

_I will not fail history…_

Desmond felt long fingers slide up beneath his hoodie and over the sharp curve of his hips. They fingered his waistline, traced the hard metal buckle on his belt, slid down into his pockets. He felt the heat of a body behind him, the washing of breath over his neck. He did shiver then.

_I will not…_

Kisses were pressed to the back of his neck, those long fingers unbuckling his belt and unzipping his jeans, running ever so sensually over the material of his (blue) boxer briefs. Desmond let out a strangled noise.

_Fail…_

He could feel hips grinding against him, a fervent mouth attached to his neck, sucking and lapping and marking. One hand slid up over his stomach, under his hoodie and his shirt. The other slithered inside his briefs and found its rock-hard goal. Desmond moaned, and then bit down on his arm to stifle the noise. “Fuck…”

He heard Shaun chuckle lowly behind him as his nose skimmed up the warm skin of Desmond’s neck. “Of course.”

Desmond’s hips were bucking into Shaun’s hand, as much as he didn’t want them to. He felt so conflicted… he _hated_ Shaun with every fibre of his being, but there was a welling passion inside him that just didn’t seem to quell. “Shaun, fuck, please,” Desmond’s hand was trembling so hard he dropped the chalk. He leaned back into Shaun’s arms, his own calloused hands tracing down the other’s arms. “By God…”

Shaun kissed the side of his head, squeezing Desmond’s rock-hard cock and stroking it a few times. Desmond’s hips quivered, and he let out a strangled groan as he came harder than he ever had before. Even Lucy hadn’t consented to give him a handjob. It was absolutely magical… except for the fact that it was Shaun.

“Fucker…” Desmond pulled away as soon as he regained his head, shoving his dick back into his trousers and doing up his belt hastily.

“One more thing,” Shaun said passively. Desmond looked at him inquisitively as Shaun held up his hand. Desmond set his jaw angrily, but still he was drawn forward. He took Shaun’s wrist and tentatively drew his tongue along the inside of Shaun’s index finger.

“Good boy.” Shaun smiled, running a long finger over the mark he’d let on Desmond’s neck. Desmond, all of his own accord, dropped to his knees. He had been seized by a desire so powerful it threatened to blind him. He worked with numb fingers at the buckle of Shaun’s belt, unzipping his trousers and reaching through the slip of his boxer shorts.

Shaun was honestly amazed at just how fast Desmond was on him. In less than five seconds he was on his knees with Shaun’s cock in his mouth, sucking like a baby. He wasn’t too good – he’d definitely never done it before, that was for sure – but he wasn’t bad. Shaun grunted and twisted his fingers in Desmond’s short hair as he came, satisfied to hear a choking noise come from Desmond’s throat. He drew his hips back, his flaccid member connected to Desmond’s red, wet lips by a glistening string of saliva. Desmond swallowed and got to his feet again. Almost languidly Desmond kissed him, still possessed by the same lust that had forced him to his knees, his lips still hot and wet and salty. Shaun wound his arms around Desmond’s waist, and felt the other’s strong fingers grip the front of his grey pullover.

“You’d better get going, Mr Miles,” Shaun told him lowly. “Your time is over.”

Desmond’s eyes flicked to the clock. Realising the time – how it got to be so late he’d never know – he grabbed his bag and bolted out the door. Shaun smiled to himself, zipping up his trousers and doing up his belt. He shook his head. He knew it would come to a head sooner or later… he knew he wasn’t the most cordial person on the planet, but such an attitude sometimes – and very rarely – drew in someone – like Desmond Miles – who mistook passion for hate. Or, perhaps, there was a bit of both. Shaun knew he was a dick, but he couldn’t stand idiots.

 

Desmond sat in his car, fretting. He hastily drove home and was glad that his dad wasn’t back from work… or maybe he’d gone out. Desmond didn’t care. He crashed into the living room and made a beeline for his room, slamming the door and leaning against the wall, quite out of breath. Holy shit. What had just happened?

He replayed the memories in his head. Right… he was in detention, writing lines like some fucking four-year-old, and then… then… the next thing he knew he’d gotten a hand-job from his history professor and was on his knees with a dick in his mouth.

Just the thought of the afternoon’s events made Desmond’s cheeks grow warm. He fingered the zipper of his hoodie, drawing it down to let out the heat. His fingers lingered at his belt. He could feel himself growing thinking of what happened, and his hand slipped below his waistline to grasp his cock, willing it not to grow any harder. He could hear Shaun’s little laugh in his ear, and he began to slide his fingers around. He bit down on his lips as he began to move fast, his head tilted back to lean against the wall. “Fuck…” He came all over the inside of his jeans, and then promptly went to have a shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Italian:**  
>  _Figlio di puttana_ = son of a whore


	5. Art Class

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ezio fills Leonardo's lack of models.

**V: Ezio Auditore**

Ezio Auditore had been introduced to Leonardo da Vinci when he was in his junior year.

Leonardo was a good friend of his mother’s, and he was an amazing artisan and scientist. He taught both, but at a different school to the one Ezio went to. Ezio was positively fascinated by the older man; the one with the blonde hair and blue eyes and the smattering of freckles across his nose. Ezio thought the way Leonardo went about his tasks was interesting and he never got tired of watching. Ezio often drifted to Leonardo’s loft in the city to watch him paint or sculpt or craft. He enjoyed his company, and he hoped Leonardo did too. By the way Leonardo smiled kindly at him he guessed he was right.

Ezio was a lazy person by default – even so, he was fit and devastatingly handsome and was never without a girlfriend. Despite the fact that he was an unmistakably languid and carefree person, he would have done anything for Leonardo. Leonardo was surprisingly strong, as Ezio had found out the first day they had met. His mother had commissioned some works from the artist, and Ezio had tagged along to help carry the boxes. Leonardo had picked up a box with one arm that Ezio was almost crushed by.  
Leonardo was a very happy-go-lucky kind of person, and Ezio had never heard him say an unkind word or look at someone meanly. He found it pleasantly refreshing, especially since he was always in some sort of sinister situation.

Ezio was forced to change schools at the end of his junior year. He had punched Cesare-fucking-Borgia so hard that he’d knocked him out cold. There had been a massive fistfight prior, drawing the attention of half the school before teachers came along and broke it up.

In a way, Ezio was glad he wasn’t at the same school as Cesare anymore. He didn’t have to deal with the bastard on a daily basis, at least.

He had been surprised when he had turned up on the first day of his senior year and found that his fine arts teacher was Leonardo da Vinci. Leonardo hadn’t seemed surprised to see him, though. In fact, he acted as if he’d rather expected it.

Leonardo was a good teacher, but it made Ezio’s blood boil to see the female students flirting with him. Even though the fine arts class was made up of three-quarters of attractive chicks, Leonardo brushed each one of them off patiently and kindly. Ezio had made many a young woman cry in his time by his clumsy rejections, but he had never seen a girl emerge from the art department in tears. Not once.

Ezio had slowly grown used to seeing the blonde-haired artist every day, and he found contentment whenever he looked at him.

Ezio liked art, but he was no good at it. He preferred appraisal to drawing.

“Ezio, _amico mio,_ ” Leonardo motioned for him to stay after class one day. Ezio turned around and gently shouldered through the throng of students heading for the stairs.

“What is it?” he asked, looking down to where Leonardo sat behind his desk. The artist shifted a bit uncomfortably and waited for the last student to leave before speaking.

“We have been friends for a time now, no?” he asked. Ezio nodded hesitantly.

“You know you can tell me anything, Leonardo. What is it that troubles you?”

Leonardo sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I have run out of models, Ezio. The women, the men, everyone. I tire of drawing the same people, and there is a severe shortage of willing models in this city. I need… something to test my boundaries.” He looked up with clear blue eyes. “Ezio, would you be so kind as to model for me?”

Ezio was taken by surprise. He hadn’t expected such a request, but the thought was appealing indeed. Ezio was tall and muscular, leaner than his cousin Altaïr, with long brown hair and deep brown eyes. He had a magnificent smile, too.

“I suppose so,” he replied, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t have anything better to do.”

Leonardo clapped his hands together, leaping to his feet. “ _Bene!_ ” he exclaimed excitedly. “ _Molto bene! Mille grazie, amico mio!_ ” He clapped Ezio on the shoulder, his face alight with happiness. Ezio smiled back, unable to keep a straight face.

“ _Nessun problemo, signore,_ ” Ezio assured him. “Tell me when and where and I am yours.”

Leonardo grinned. Even though he was the older of the two, he was a little bit shorter than Ezio, but enough to have to look up at him. “Would this afternoon suit you? I would take you, of course, but if you have your own car you can drive, of course –,”

Ezio cut him off with a smile. “Where?”

“My loft.”

Ezio squeezed the artist’s shoulder. “I will see you there, _signore._ ”

 

Ezio drove himself to Leonardo’s loft, preferring not to let Altaïr and Desmond catch on to where he was going. He’d never hear the end of it if they did.

He arrived at Leonardo’s loft little over fifteen minutes later, hopping out and practically skipping up the steps to the tenth floor. Ezio always preferred to take the stairs, and this time he all but flew up them, his long legs taking them three at a time.

“Leonardo, _salute!_ ” he called as he opened the door. Leonardo looked up from prepping his canvas and smiled.

“ _Ciao_ , Ezio,” he replied genially. He motioned to a divan in the centre of the room. “Please, take a seat.”

Ezio obediently went and sat down.

“ _Per favore,_ take off your shirt, _amico mio._ ”

Ezio slipped his shirt over his head and let it fall over the arm of the divan, leaving him marvelously bare-chested. Leonardo seemed marginally surprised by what he saw and paused.

Sooner or later Leonardo began to sketch, talking genially all the time. Ezio replied when he could, but he would have preferred not to talk. Watching the artist’s lean, nimble fingers was enough to satisfy him. The sound of Leonardo’s voice was enough to make him drift into peacefulness.

He must have dozed off, because he suddenly heard Leonardo calling his name.

“Ah, _dio mio!_ ” the artist exclaimed. “I thought I had lost you!”

Ezio sat up and stretched. “Ah, _mi dispiace,_ ” he apologised.

“Ah, _amico mio,_ would you mind maybe standing?” Leonardo asked hesitantly.

“ _Certamente,_ ” Ezio smiled, getting to his feet. His trousers hung low about his hips, revealing the trail of brown hair that led to one of his most impressive assets.

“ _Bene!_ ”

Leonardo began to sketch again, and Ezio rolled his neck to stretch it out a bit. After a few more minutes Leonardo paused again.

“Leonardo,” Ezio sighed. “It is quite all right.”

Leonardo smiled gratefully and approached him, letting the artist inspect him quite closely and occasionally trace a long finger over a muscle or two.

“Exquisite,” the artist was muttering. “Such fine physique. I have never seen anybody so sculpted.”

His comments made Ezio blush and feel hotter than he should have. He knew Leonardo was different, but he never expected he’d feel these feelings towards him. At that moment Leonardo was bent double, examining Ezio’s abdominal muscles. Ezio brought a large, calloused hand up under Leonardo’s chin, raising him up straight. Ezio looked down at him with smouldering brown eyes.

“Ezio, _amico,_ you are my student –,”

“And your friend, no? Leonardo, I would do anything for you.” Ezio bent down slightly to press a kiss against the artist’s lips, winding his arms around Leonardo’s slightly smaller form. He could tell Leonardo was trying extremely hard not to give in, but his efforts were failing. Ezio could feel it.

Ezio drew back and smiled softly down at the blushing blonde who was trying his hardest to look away.

“ _Sì,_ but –,” Leonardo was cut off by another kiss, and this time he abandoned all hope of survival and snaked his arms around Ezio’s neck. He felt the hard muscles of his student’s body press against him, so warm and loving. He melted into the kiss and felt Ezio’s hand dip downwards.

“Ezio, _smettila,_ ” Leonardo groaned, putting his palms against the bare skin of Ezio’s chest and pushing. “ _Per favore!_ ”

Ezio ran his nose along Leonardo’s jaw, catching his earlobe between his teeth. Leonardo bit his tongue to stifle a moan. “Ezio…”

With a desperate shove, Leonardo stumbled back. His face was as red as anything and he was breathing shallowly. “Ezio, I beg of you, don’t. You are my student – I cannot do this. I care for you, of course I do, but this is… _folia!_ ”

Ezio felt disappointed and embarrassed to have been rejected so openly. He was not accustomed to rejection, and so to be pushed away by someone he loved – by someone he didn’t even know he loved –,

Ezio slowly approached the red-faced artist, the muscles of his body moving like water under his skin. He reached out with a warm hand and traced a line along Leonardo’s jaw.

“ _Caro mio,_ ” he said softly. “Nobody will ever know. We will keep it between us, and us only. _Ti amore,_ Leonardo. Please. _Sei tutto per me. Sei il mio universo._ ”

Leonardo swallowed. “Ezio, I…” his sentence trailed off, his excuse lost as Ezio kissed him for a third time.

“Leave it up to me, _amore,_ ” Ezio promised as he kissed Leonardo’s cheek. “I will take care of you.”

Leonardo made a small sound in his throat, pressing his open lips to Ezio’s in utter defeat. He was met with the student’s darting tongue, just as strong and talented as the rest of him. It wasn’t long before all inhibitions had deserted him, and he let Ezio tug him to the divan without complaint. He shivered at the names Ezio called him, some loving and others so dirty it made him blush. “ _Ti desidero,_ Leonardo,” Ezio whispered as he fumbled to get the artist out of those goddamn clothes. He couldn’t stop telling Leonardo how much he loved him – the thought of the blonde man writing beneath him and begging him made him harder than any girl had before. Leonardo, he could tell, was trying obscenely hard to control himself, but just as before, his effort was proving futile.

“Ezio,” he gasped as Ezio slid a hand up his stomach. Leonardo was lean but thin, with pale skin that was so clear Ezio wanted to do nothing more than mark it. Ezio kissed the artist’s neck, drawing his other hand up to slide his fingers over Leonardo’s shoulders.

Ezio tenderly lay Leonardo down on the divan, looking at his face lovingly before descending down over him.

 

An hour or so later, Ezio was reclining on the divan completely naked and very happy. Leonardo had had the sense to pull on some trousers before he began to pace, his face flushed and his hands wringing together in his acute nervousness. Ezio had never had such magnificent sex in his life. The remainders of his orgasm still rang in his ears.

“Leonardo, _caro mio,_ it will be all right!” Ezio laughed flippantly. “It will be our little secret.” He touched the side of his nose as Leonardo gazed at him incredulously.

“Ezio! Do you not understand? I have – this could get me fired!” Leonardo brought his hands to his hair, grinding his teeth. “You must not tell anybody of this, do you understand?”

Ezio had never seen the artist in such a state. In all honesty he was quite amused.

“You have my word,” Ezio replied sincerely. “I shall not fail you.”

Leonardo watched him out of clear blue eyes. His gaze was sad but bright, resonating with indecision. “I think you had better go, _amico,_ ” he said eventually, shrugging on his shirt. Ezio stood and began to dress, scarcely managing to hide his smile. He left the loft after pulling Leonardo in for a soft kiss. His afternoon had been made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Italian:**  
>  _amico mio_ = my friend  
>  _mille grazie_ = a million thanks  
>  _molto bene_ = very good/well  
>  _(va) bene_ = good/well/ok  
>  _nessun problemo_ = no problem  
>  _signore_ = sir/mister  
>  _ciao_ = hello/goodbye  
>  _dio mio_ = my God  
>  _mi dispiace_ = my apologies/I’m sorry  
>  _certamente_ = certainly  
>  _smettila_ = stop (what you are doing)  
>  _per favore_ = please  
>  _folia_ = madness  
>  _ti amo_ = I love you  
>  _caro mio_ = my darling  
>  _Sei tutto per me, sei il mio universo_ = you are everything to me; you are my universe  
>  _ti desidero_ = I want you  
>  _amore (mio)_ = (my) love


	6. Alarm Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Altaïr takes some risks, and doesn't necessarily get the results he wants.

   
 **VI: Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad**

What.

The.

Fuck.

These were the exact words he conveyed to Malik Al-Sayf after his psychology class.

Malik had found it all very annoying.

“I’m the teacher here, Altaïr, in case you have forgotten. You should show a little more respect.” Malik had pushed his glasses up into his hair. Altaïr smirked at the man.

“Respect? Wasn’t it you who was riding my –,” he was cut off as Malik slapped a hand over his mouth.

“I hope you understand that you won’t be able to use your little bits of information as blackmail,” Malik snarled. “Firstly because you would never want anybody to think you were gay, and secondly because nobody would believe you anyway.”

Altaïr knew he was right, but he would never admit it. He checked to see if the room was empty before sliding a hand around Malik’s waist and pulling their bodies together. The teacher gave him a warning look. “You shouldn’t assume things, _sir,_ ” he said with burning amber eyes. “You’d be surprised.”

Malik pushed past him. “High school is a jungle,” he said loudly as he picked up his bag and made for the door. “It’s like going to a zoo.”

Altaïr followed him up the steps with a skipping step. At first he wasn’t sure whether to be nervous or happy, and eventually chose the latter.

“Exactly,” he told the professor whose face was not unlike a storm cloud. “Just like a jungle; you have to be strong to survive, right?” He slammed a large hand against the door beside Malik’s head before he could open it. Malik shot him a blistering glare.

“I don’t appreciate your rudeness, Ibn-La’Ahad,” he snapped as he pushed Altaïr’s hand away and exited out into the corridor milling with students.

“You seemed to like it,” Altaïr bent down to breathe in his ear as they walked, their bodies pressed close together by the throng of oblivious scholars. “Having me so deep inside you. I never expected that you’d ride me, though – that was unexpected. Did you like how big I am? I saw it on your face – the way you rolled your hips around, the way you called my name so wanly –,”

Malik almost slapped him. His cheeks had gone red and his eyes had darkened so much they were almost black. As they were spat out into the empty end of the corridor Malik got as far from Altaïr as he could. “You are a little shit,” he spat angrily. Altaïr found it amusing – he was just like a cat. “And don’t you _dare_ think that you have a hold over me just because…” he grated his teeth together as Altaïr smiled. “And I never called your name.”

With that he turned and stalked away, leaving Altaïr inwardly grinning. The young man snorted and flicked up his hood. “Not outwardly.”

He strolled to his locker in the now almost-empty corridor, languidly packing his bags. He knew Desmond would be pissed at him for being late; the thought made him laugh.

 

When he met Desmond outside the school, he knew something was up. Firstly because Ezio was missing, and secondly because Desmond was sweating.

Altaïr paused before getting into the car. Desmond wasn’t looking at him. “You all right?”

Desmond nodded, swallowing. “Yeah, fine.”

Desmond drove jerkily, his mind wandering all over the place. Eventually Altaïr made him switch sides.

“Something’s up with you, Des,” Altaïr remarks in a hard voice, his eyes shaded by the lip of his hood.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Desmond lied in a mumble. Altaïr sniffed the air suspiciously, and began laughing so hard that the car almost swerved into the next lane.

“You smell like sex, Des!” he hooted, banging his hands on the steering wheel. “Who was it, hm? That Lucy chick moved away, so it wasn’t her… man, _gawwad!_ ” he blinked the tears from his eyes. “So? Who was it?”

Desmond shifted uneasily. “Just some chick. I can’t remember her name.”

Altaïr crowed with laughter. “Hey – where’s Ezio?”

Desmond shrugged. “I don’t know. He keeps disappearing at the end of the day – I don’t know where he keeps going.”

Altaïr shrugged. He didn’t care where the Italian had gotten to – he had his own problems. He had a plan to sort out.

 

The next day he had psychology in his second period. Malik ignored him pointedly throughout the whole lesson, snubbing him purposefully. Altaïr had his plan devised. He knew _exactly_ what to do.

After he excused himself to go to the bathroom, he roamed the corridors with his hood up and his hands in his pockets. He stopped beside a little red box not too far from the lecture room. He rocked back on his heels, pulling one hand out of his pocket. Decisively, he punched the little box and set of the alarm.

The fire alarm screeched throughout the building as Altaïr strolled back to his classroom, smiling. People were exiting out into the corridors, muttering and whispering and theorising. He pushed through them, going against the current and back towards his classroom.

When he got there half the students had exited, Malik bringing up the rear of the line. There was a certain sharpness to his face, an alertness that Altaïr had seen only once before. He waited just inside the door and grabbed Malik’s arm before he could leave, slamming the door after the last student had exited, locking it.

“Altaïr?” he hissed, just audible over the alarm. “What are you doing? This is dangerous –,”

Altaïr grinned and silenced him with his lips. “ _Bil hudoo,_ ” he murmured against Malik’s lips. “I was the one who set it off.”

Malik shoved him away with surprising strength. “You are a complete moron,” he exclaimed hotly. Altaïr snatched him up by the lapels of his jacket, pulling their bodies flush against one another. He felt victorious at the small sound Malik made as he did so.

“ _Ayre feek._ ”

Altaïr gripped Malik’s shoulders, forcing the man to his knees. “Isn’t that a little harsh, Malik?” he asked mockingly, opening his jeans.

Malik looked up at him out of stormy eyes, his teeth grit so hard that Altaïr was vessel to the fleeting fear that Malik might bite his dick clean off.

Altaïr watched as Malik got to his feet pressing their bodies together and trapping Altaïr’s raging erection between them. His hand curled around it, squeezing it tightly and giving it a stroke or two. Malik’s nose skimmed over his cheek, his breath warm on Altaïr’s face. Altaïr’s expression suddenly twisted with pain as Malik delivered a violent twist to his cock.

“Nice try, novice,” Malik hissed against Altaïr’s cheek. “You’ll have to try a lot harder than that.”

With that he shouldered past Altaïr, heading out to the assembly point.


	7. Fuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik tries to convince himself that Altaïr isn't worth the thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Exams coming up, so updates may be a little scarce for the next 2/3 weeks]

**VII: Malik Al-Sayf**

That little _shit._

Malik had never been so angry. He had never felt such a fiery, kick-the-shit-out-of-something fury before in his _life_. Not when his brother had taken his new car for a joyride, not when his cat had brought in those dead birds – nothing. He was absolutely seething. Who did he think he was?

Malik slammed the door to his house, throwing his bag down with more force than was really necessary. He stood there behind the closed door, clenching and unclenching his teeth. He noticed how stupid that lamp looked sitting there – why were the sofa cushions crooked? Damn, that light was flickering… anger always made Malik more sensitive than usual.

“Mal?”

Malik looked up sharply to see his brother standing at the bottom of the stairs, feet bare and – 

“Is that my shirt?” Malik asked sharply, loosening his tie. Kadar’s face suddenly took a guilty turn and he laughed uneasily, scratching the back of his neck.

“I ran out,” Kadar supplied hopelessly, plucking at the large, white shirt that hung off him like a sheet. Malik glowered at him stormily. He knew that Kadar didn’t like doing the laundry, and that the majority of his wardrobe was under his bed. Malik reached up, passing a hand over his face and rubbing his eyes. He stalked forward, shouldering past his brother and heading up the stairs without as much as a glance in the boy’s direction.

“Mal?” Kadar called, his voice quiet with concern. “Malik!”

Malik didn’t stop when he heard Kadar’s footsteps padding up the stairs after him.

“Malik, what’s wrong?” he demanded, grabbing the back of Malik’s jacket when he caught up with his brother. “You’ve gotta tell me, Mal.”

Malik looked down into his little brother’s face – a concerned face, an innocent face. Malik grimaced and hugged the boy to him. Kadar was confused and a little worried. “Allah, Malik, are you all right?” he asked, blinking and patting his brother on the back, a little awkwardly. Even though Malik doted on Kadar, there was something up – and Kadar knew it.

“Yeah,” Malik replied after a moment, straightening up and clearing his throat. “You can order take-out if you like,” he said, trying to smile as best he could. “It’s Friday.”

Yes… it was Friday. Thank God. Malik was content just marking papers for the next two days as long as he didn’t have to see that asshole in his psychology class. Altaïr.

Muttering to himself, Malik traipsed to his bathroom and began to strip himself of his clothes. No matter how much he tried to avoid it, he couldn’t stop thinking of Altaïr. He couldn’t help but think of the fact that Altaïr was the last person he’d slept with. His stomach tightened at the thought of it – he couldn’t deny it, Altaïr knew what he was doing when it came to fucking. Malik was horrified when he looked down and saw one of the worst boners he’d had in a while. He quickly turned on the shower, letting the water blast his hand as he waited for the iciness to run out of the jet. He got under the water soon enough, sighing out loud at just how good the hot water felt against his back. What a day it had been… that asshole Altaïr had set off the fucking fire alarm and then had the _nerve to come onto him_ while everybody else was filing out to the assembly point. Malik had to hand it to him: he had guts. Either Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad was very brave or very stupid. Malik had yet to discover exactly which one he was.

As he’d been thinking, his hand had slid down to his groin. It was only when he felt the first stab of pleasure that he realised what he was doing.

Swearing, he snatched back his hand and knocked the water to cold. He refused to do it.

Sure enough, the cold water eventually placated his boiling blood and he felt himself calm.

He staggered out of the bathroom and back into his room, not quite sure what to do or think of himself. He lay down spread-eagle on his bed, closing his eyes. What an asshole.

 

When he next woke up it was well into the evening and Kadar was prodding him with the butt of a butterknife.

“Mal!” Kadar poked him again, triggering Malik to sit up.

“Sorry,” Malik said, shooing his brother out of the room. “I have to get dressed. I’ll be down in a bit.”

Kadar, satisfied with the answer, scuttled back downstairs. Malik dressed quickly, pulling on a t-shirt and track pants. When he descended the stairs he was met with the sight of his brother sitting cross-legged on the ground of his living room armed with a fork and a noodle box. Malik went to sit on the sofa just behind his brother and picked up his own box from the array of rustling plastic bags on the coffee table. He began to eat as Kadar channel-surfed his way through the entire network, commenting on every little thing he liked or didn’t like. If it had been anyone else, Malik would have snapped at them to shut up; but this was Kadar, and so he really didn’t mind.

“What about this one?” asked Kadar, nodding to the screen. Malik didn’t even look up.

“Sure.” He didn’t care.

Kadar turned around and looked at him scrutinisingly for a little bit before shrugging and turning away, muttering.

Malik looked at the show, but he wasn’t watching it. Vaguely, he realised that it was something stupid; Kadar tended to watch stupid shows like these no matter how much Malik told him not to.

It was all Malik could do to keep his mind off Altaïr. He convinced himself that he was angry and that the prat wasn’t worth his thought, and as he went to bed that night he finally began to believe it.


	8. What Went on in Malik's Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kadar meets Altaïr and shit hits the fan.

**VIII: Kadar Al-Sayf**

Something was up with Malik. Kadar knew there was. He _always_ knew when something was wrong with his brother. There was a certain way he carried himself, the funny way he avoided looking at people, when he was upset or angry. Kadar had noticed that Malik hadn’t really looked at him – or anything, for that matter – properly that entire afternoon. Apart from that weird scenario where Malik had hugged him. That was weird.

But Kadar, being Kadar, had thought nothing of it. It was Malik, after all; Malik was capable of some pretty violent mood swings. Maybe it was because he was an adult.

On Saturday morning Kadar woke up earlier than usual. He looked at the clock – a little after seven. He sat up, thirsty and sore-eyed. He grabbed the water bottle that sat by his bed and took a long drink, quenching his parched throat.

Wandering out into the hall, he noticed that Malik wasn’t awake yet. That was strange, as Malik was an early riser, even on weekends. Kadar padded barefoot down the hall towards his brother’s room, tentatively opening the door only a fraction.

There was a lump in the bed that was undoubtedly Malik. Kadar remembered his brother’s strange mood from the night before, and opened the door fully.

The blinds were open and sunlight splashed across the carpet littered with clothes and various books and magazines. This was weird, too – Malik was _clean_. He was forever nagging Kadar to clean up his mess or his room, or to do the dishes or vacuum the floor.

Kadar tiptoed into his brother’s room, picking his way about the mess, to scramble onto the queen-sized bed. He crawled across to where Malik lay, still and silent and breathing evenly.

“Hey, Mal!” hissed Kadar, nudging the figure crowned by a mop of messy black hair.

Malik rolled over, turning his back even further on his brother. He groaned in the typical ‘go away’ fashion that teenagers – like Kadar, in fact – often did. Kadar felt exasperated, and then switched to slightly amused as he contemplated their role-change. He braced both his hands on Malik’s side and pushed and pulled, trying to disrupt the sleeping professor as much as he possibly could.

“For fuck’s sake, Kadar!” Malik flung out an arm, catching the back of Kadar’s head and clipping him over it on one swift motion. Kadar fell forward face-first into the mess of Malik’s covers.

He heard Malik sigh outside the cool darkness of his vision, grabbing the scruff of his neck and pulling him back up again. Kadar was met with the rueful, sleep-creased face of his brother.

“Sorry,” Kadar apologised, and was glad when Malik laughed and ruffled his hair.

“I’m the one who should be sorry,” Malik replied. “I didn’t mean to lash out at you like that.”

Kadar grinned, but his smile faltered as he remembered why he went there in the first place. He crawled into the bed beside his brother, pulling the covers up against the crisp morning air. “Bro,” he began, looking at Malik’s face with scrutinising eyes.

“What’s the matter?” Malik asked, his brow creasing in a frown.

“That’s what I came to ask _you_ ,” Kadar replied. “You’ve been acting real weird lately.”

Malik sighed again. “Just… some things have been going on. Don’t worry about it.” He reached out and flicked his nose, smiling. He then proceeded to vault himself painstakingly out of his bed. “Now get out,” he continued, his voice having regained the tone that Kadar was so used to hearing. “I have to get changed.”

Kadar practically rolled out of the bed, leaving Malik to his clothes. As he stood out in the hall he felt the strange tingling at the back of his head where Malik had hit him. Malik was strong, but he never broke any laws because of it. He didn’t punch people for fun, though Kadar knew that if he did he would land himself in jail pretty fast. He knew Malik was more than able to cause some serious damage. But he _also_ knew that Malik had a very long fuse and was not quick to anger. Kadar rubbed the back of his head. Weird.

 

Later that morning Kadar was quickly growing bored. It was so early in the term that he had next to no homework, assignments or study, and thus he found himself severely lacking in things to do.

He flung open the door to his brother’s study, his blue eyes flashing. “Mal!”

Malik looked up, pushing his glasses up his nose. He was right in the middle of marking papers, and Kadar was shocked at just how many there were to mark so early in the term.

“I’m going out,” Kadar said, holding the keys to Malik’s car up. “Can I take the car?”

Malik narrowed his eyes, remembering the last time Kadar had driven his car. He was lucky enough to have been able to knock the dent out. As Kadar blinked those big, blue eyes at him Malik felt his heart cave in and he waved his hand dismissively. “Fine.”

Kadar grinned and thanked him and skipped out to the garage. He loved Malik’s car. It was sleek and black and _awesome_.

He opened the door and slid into the seat, marvelling at the smooth, well-kept leather. He closed the door and started the engine, loving how it purred. He hit the button on the remote to the garage door, letting the light flood in and catch the metal, making it gleam. Kadar backed out of the drive as carefully as he could, knowing that Malik would be watching his every move. Sure enough, Malik _was_ watching him and seeing just how close he came to hitting the letterbox.

 

Kadar considered himself a good driver. He still got a little nervous in a traffic jam or on the highway, and he still got a little jumpy when driving next to a truck. He still skidded on wet roads and had a rather small attention span, but apart from that he considered himself to be a good driver.

Malik certainly didn’t agree with him. Every time Kadar asked to drive his car Malik would shoot him a venomous look; one that said ‘remember what happened last time?’ Hence, Kadar didn’t ask very often. Malik was right, though. The last time Kadar had driven Malik’s car he’d almost wrapped it around a pole. Luckily he’d come away with only a dent. Kadar knew why Malik was so stingy about Kadar driving. It was years ago, but in Malik’s memory it was still fresh.

They had been driving down a moderately-busy city street, Malik having picked up Kadar from his martial arts training. It was at about eight o’clock in the evening, and Kadar was sitting in the front seat beside his brother, the radio tuned to their favourite station. Kadar had been leaning against the cool glass of the window, watching the streetlights as they flickered past like fireflies, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the tops of the skyscrapers. Malik had kept his eyes intently on the road. He was very careful, was Malik Al-Sayf, always making sure that he was doing the right thing and not putting anyone in danger - _especially_ not his brother. Even so, the man appeared out of nowhere. He ran out onto the street, cowled by the hood of a white hoodie, completely disregarding the traffic. The street they were on was all but empty, and as Malik swerved the car he plunged them headlong into one of the reinforcing walls on each side of the road, sending the car skidding sideways and into one of the streetlights. The pole of the light had collided directly with Kadar, who was knocked unconscious instantly. Malik’s arm had been trapped between the car door and the reinforcing wall.

Malik remembered the flashing lights and the sirens and the shouting, and Kadar took his word for what happened. They had been admitted to the hospital an hour later, Malik undergoing emergency surgery to remove the mangled mess of his left arm. He didn’t want to leave his brother, who lay battered and broken and bleeding on the stretcher. That had been one of the only times Malik had cried. Kadar’s bloodied face and broken nose gave way to two half-closed blue eyes, completely void of life. Kadar’s breath was so shallow that Malik almost couldn’t feel it.

When Malik woke up, two days later, he almost passed out from the pain. He now had a stump in place of a left arm, stitched up with cruse looking thread. Even so, gripped by fear, he yanked out his IV cord and various other needles, getting out of his bed and beginning his search for his brother. Although the nurses tried to get him to lie down again, he refused to do what they said until they showed him his brother.

Reluctantly they complied, and Malik felt his eyes burn as he saw Kadar lying in a bed with an oxygen mask over his face, needles in his arms, lying completely still. When Malik gripped his arm he did not respond.

Malik healed and was dismissed, but Kadar stayed in the hospital in a completely vegetative state. Malik visited him often, sitting by his bed for hours, vowing to get his back on the man in the white hoodie who had run out onto the road. Five months after the accident, when Malik was sleeping in the seat by Kadar’s bed, he was woken by the frantic sound of beeping from the heart monitor. Malik panicked momentarily, and then turned around and watched as life was breathed back into his little brother’s face. Blue eyes opened and closed, brows twitching and creasing, limbs moving, breath gasping. A hand shot out and grabbed his, fingers squeezing and fingernails cutting. Malik had never felt so relieved at pain. He had fallen to his knees beside Kadar’s bed, bringing Kadar’s hand up to wipe at his tears.

 

Kadar hadn’t realised the light had turned green until someone blew their horn at him. He was in the city, the buildings crawling towards the sky. He parked in one of the free places, making sure to lock Malik’s car before he began exploring the place. It was late afternoon by the time Kadar had stopped walking around the city, kicking cans with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He leaned against a wall near the parking lot he’d begun at, letting the breeze wash over his face.

“Al-Sayf.”

Kadar turned, lifting himself off the wall. He saw a tall young man with golden eyes and scarred lips. Kadar saw something flicker in the man’s face before he smiled widely and held out his hand. “I’m Altaïr,” he said as Kadar hesitantly shook his hand.

“Oh,” Kadar’s mouth dropped open. He knew Altaïr. _Everybody_ knew Altaïr. He was the loner, the one who always sat alone or with his cousins. He was also the one you didn’t fuck with. Ever. Unless you wanted a broken nose and your balls in your throat, of course. Altaïr was the badass-douchebag kind of guy that could kill with looks. He was also quite popular among the female students, but they were all too afraid to go up to him. Except Maria Thorpe. “Yeah, hi, I’m Kadar.”

Altaïr rocked back on his heels and nodded to Malik’s car. “That yours?”

Kadar swallowed the lump in his throat, trying not to let his awe shine through his voice. “It’s my brother’s.”

Altaïr nodded, his eyes catching the golden sun. He looked like a bronze statue, his teeth glistening when he smiled.

Altaïr adopted Kadar’s presence, and the younger Al-Sayf was almost shining with happiness at being the pinpoint of Altaïr’s attention. Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad was little less than an impalpable idol to Kadar Al-Sayf, so of course, when he asked for a lift Kadar didn’t think twice.

Altaïr slid onto the cool leather seat next to the teenage driver, and the first thing that hit him was the smell of Malik. He shivered involuntarily and looked across at Kadar. They went to the same school, and Altaïr had seen him before. He looked a lot like his brother, save the different set of his mouth and those blue eyes. What with Kadar’s dark, Arabian features, his fair blue eyes were a delightful contrast… or so Altaïr thought. But still, that scent of Malik was almost overpowering, and Altaïr wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to hold it together.

Kadar noticed that something was up with Altaïr as soon as they hit the highway. The golden-eyed senior seemed uncomfortable, so much so that he was bordering on edgy. Kadar was seriously beginning to consider the notion that it was _him_ that was the problem, until he noticed what was sitting in Altaïr’s lap; something Altaïr was trying to hide.

Kadar gripped the steering wheel with both hands, his palms clammy. He could pretend not to notice it, or he could just…

That train of thought almost sent Kadar swerving into the next lane. Altaïr swore as the car jerked, but as Kadar steadied it he recoiled back into his quiet corner. Kadar bit down hard on his bottom lip, gnawing away for another five minutes until they re-entered suburbia. Kadar immediately swerved into a underground parking lot, parking the car perfectly and turning off the engine in no more than half a minute. Altaïr shot him a look that was certainly not confused.

“I think,” the Syrian rumbled in a low voice, shifting slightly. He turned the upper half of his body towards Kadar, his golden eyes glimmering in the darkness. Kadar swallowed again. “You know what to do.”

Kadar didn’t know what it was about Altaïr that made him like this. Maybe it was the smell of his sweat or the look of his skin. It could’ve been his voice, even. Whatever it was, it made Kadar question his heterosexuality and then bend over to wrestle with the snake in Altaïr’s pants like some sort of fucking pro.

Kadar had noticed Altaïr’s erection about half-way back to suburbia. All the while he warred with himself whether to notice it or just let it slide. He decided to go for the former.

Altaïr groaned and let his head tip back as his cock sprung free, inexcusably hard and leaking. Kadar swallowed the lump in his throat for the third time, but it still didn’t seem to go away. His fingers trembled at he touched it and felt how blisteringly hot it felt underneath his fingers. He felt Altaïr’s four-fingered left hand twist in his hair and push his head down, the tip of his cock pushing at Kadar’s thick lips, demanding entrance.

Kadar obligingly opened his lips and felt Altaïr fill his mouth. Kadar tried to swallow around it, to fit the whole thing in his mouth, but the attempt proved futile and he game up for air gagging and coughing. He heard Altaïr chuckle from above him and clench his hand in his hair. “Just relax.”

Kadar tried to relax, closing his eyes only to be told to open them again. Altaïr instructed him to relax his throat as he guided his head down, and Kadar groaned when Altaïr’s cock slid down his throat with minimal gagging. It became easier from there, and soon Kadar was eagerly lapping at Altaïr’s dick like he’d been doing it for years. “Look at me,” Altaïr growled, his voice husky. Kadar obediently looked up with his blue eyes, and felt Altaïr tense.

“Get up.”

Kadar’s head was tugged away, and he felt his seat jolt backwards so his feet leapt off the pedals. The back of his chair also fell away as Altaïr worked the switches, falling almost horizontal. Kadar choked out a noise, only to have it muffled by Altaïr’s experienced, persistent lips. He absolutely melted into that kiss, feeling his own erection strain in his jeans. He wrapped his arms around his upperclassman’s neck, moaning and unashamed. He felt Altaïr’s fingers undo his belt and slide his jeans down before running his strong hands over the damp material of Kadar’s boxer-briefs. He felt Altaïr smile against his lips.

“You want to?”

Kadar only moaned in reply. “Please, yes, please!”

Altaïr chuckled before fishing about in his pocket and pulling out a little, plastic packet and tearing it open with his teeth. He rolled it onto his cock with one hand while dextrously removing Kadar’s underwear with his other hand. He then pushed two fingers past Kadar’s lips. Kadar sucked on them dutifully – almost greedily – while rocking his hips against the hand that palmed his erection that was verging on being painful. He made sure to coat the fingers with as much saliva as he could – he wasn’t an idiot. He knew what was coming.

He felt Altaïr push one finger into him, and he shivered, grappling at the senior’s shoulders as he battled against the slight pain. Altaïr began to work his finger agonisingly slowly, waiting for Kadar’s moan to signal that he was ready for another. When the sound finally came, Altaïr pushed the second finger in beside the first and crooked them up. Kadar’s hips bucked as his mind flashed white, the pain being absolutely eradicated by whatever Altaïr had just touched. “Yes, Altaïr,” he panted, opening his eyes to look at Altaïr, who leaned over him like a great shadow.

Altaïr smirked and added a third finger, moving faster now. Kadar met each thrust, his hands snatched up and pinned above his head by Altaïr’s left hand. When Kadar felt Altaïr prodding a fourth finger amongst the other three, Kadar’s eyes snapped open in a mix of shock, horror, and indescribable want. Altaïr just smiled. “You’re going to need it.”

Kadar almost cried when the fingers were removed, but instead he was met with something of a harder consistency. He felt the muscles’ in Altaïr’s body flex as he slowly pushed his hips forward. Kadar mewled, and Altaïr suddenly shot his hips forward like a piston, burying himself to the base in Kadar. He almost came on the spot, but stopped himself, settling instead for a rather unforgiving pace. Kadar jerked and writhed and moaned beneath him, the two bodies twisting the clothes between them. Eventually Altaïr stripped off their shirts so their torsos ground together, slick with sweat. Altaïr loved the feel of Kadar’s small, lithe body beneath him and the hot, tight, inexperienced ass that he was pounding. He swore, groaning, as Kadar’s entire abdomen clenched as he came all over their stomachs. Kadar was verging on screaming, but Altaïr bent down to muffle the noise with his lips, biting down on the boy’s bottom lip. With a few more thrusts he was done too, stilling when he was fully buried in Kadar’s ass.

“Shit that feels good,” Altaïr panted. He then drew out of Kadar, straightening up as much as he could in the confines of the car. The windows were laced with fog – so much so, in fact, that most of the glass was covered in a thin layer of the stuff. The air inside the car was hot and muggy and full of sweat and sex and come. Kadar lay half-unconscious beneath him, struggling to recover from his thunderous orgasm. Altaïr was more than ready to go for another round, but didn’t want to fuck someone who was almost comatose. Instead he peeled off the condom, discarding it to the ground, before jerking off and coming on Kadar’s face. He then tucked his dick but into his trousers, took the tissues out of the centre compartment and cleaned up Kadar.  
Kadar came back to his senses about ten minutes later, and drowsily got back into his clothes, still dawdling in his post-orgasmic bliss. He looked around to see Altaïr gone.

It had gotten dark outside, and Kadar was only half-focussed as he drove the rest of the way back to his brother’s house. To him, Altaïr had always been some sort of TV star – unreachable, unattainable, impossible. But now things were different, now – Kadar sighed and shifted in his seat. This was something he couldn’t tell Malik. Malik didn’t even like him bringing _girls_ home, so if he knew that his baby brother had just gotten viciously fucked in the driver’s seat of his precious car, then… shit would hit the fan.


	9. You What

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik realises something is up with both Kadar and Altair... but he can't figure out what it is.

**IX Malik Al-Sayf**

On Sunday, Malik realised something was wrong with his brother. He almost didn’t see it over the top of his own storminess over Altaïr, but when he did notice, it was like a cold slap in the face. Kadar was _acting_ normal, sure… but Malik could see the faint blush that was a tell-tale sign that Kadar had done something.

The first thing Malik did was ask if his brother was okay. He prodded and poked and spun the boy about until he was satisfied Kadar hadn’t contracted some malicious disease. The next thing he checked was his car.  
Malik went around the perimeters of his sleek black vehicle with a keen, careful eye, looking for any scratches or dents. To his relief, and surely to Kadar’s as well, Malik found no traces of damage. He opened a door to check the inside when his brother called him.

Malik had always had keen senses, and he had a way of discerning the tones of people’s voices. Leaving the car door standing open he went in and found Kadar with trembling knees and clenched teeth, looking nervously at the dark red stain that the upturned wine glass had spread over the papers Malik had been marking at the dining room table. Malik didn’t usually drink this early, but after having to read something _Altaïr_ had handed in he had opted for alcohol. He would have been angry at Kadar, had it not been for the fact that the paper lying under the wine stain was Altaïr’s work itself. Malik just waved off his brother exasperatedly, who scuttled up the stairs and shot a few lingering, apologetic glances over his shoulder. Malik went into the kitchen to clean up the mess, and then opened the phone book.

“Ibn-La’Ahad,” he said as soon as the line picked up, his voice flat. “I need you to resubmit.”

“ _Lā afham_ ,” Altaïr’s voice was slow and groggy and somehow Malik could tell he had just woken up. After grinding his teeth impatiently, Malik was met with a continuance. “It’s Sunday, man!”

Malik clicked his tongue. “Don’t you ever call me ‘man’ again. You can either resubmit your work today or tomorrow. I’ll take the liberty to let you know that if you hand it in tomorrow I will mark it late. The choice is yours.”

Altaïr didn’t groan or complain as he usually did. He didn’t even make some wildly inappropriate remark, to which Malik was most surprised. After a few moments of silence, Malik spoke tentatively into the phone. “Altaïr?”

“So do I bring it to you house or…?” Altaïr voice _definitely_ lacked that hard, douchebag-y tone. In fact, he almost sounded… genuine.

“I expect you already know where I live.”

Altaïr chuckled. “I know where _everybody_ lives.”

The line went dead, and Malik set about checking his carpets for wine stains. He refilled his glass and made sure to drink as much as he could before the doorbell rang.

Malik answered it with an even expression and – thankfully – relaxed nerves. He wasn’t sure what it was about Altaïr that got him so worked up, so angry.

“ _Sabah el kheer_ -,” Altaïr began in a rather subdued voice before narrowing his eyes and sniffing the air. “Is that alcohol?” he asked with some of his old pointedness. “Have you been _drinking_? It’s not even twelve o’clock yet!”

Malik lifted his chin. “Just give it to me,” he demanded. Was that a twinkle of mischief in Altaïr’s eyes? “I meant the paper, novice.”

Altair reached down into the backpack he was carrying and retrieved a clean, unstained piece of paper. Malik took it warily, fully aware that something was wrong with Altaïr as well. Was there some kind of illness going around? Malik stood in the doorway, the stiff paper between his fingers as he watched Altaïr avoid looking at him. “Is that all?”

Altaïr rocked back on his heels, nodding as he looked up at the front of Malik’s house. Malik spared Altaïr one last look before closing the door, muttering to himself, and going to pour himself another glass of wine. He didn’t care if Altaïr was okay or not. The kid deserved it – the reckless little shit that he was. Malik wrinkled his nose at the thought of it, disregarding the certain incident that had initiated their relationship. All Altaïr was was a reckless, headstrong, unintelligent, childish, foolish brute. And Malik didn’t care.

 

Malik got to bed early that night. He went to bed just after Kadar did, and was unceremoniously woken a few hours later by his little brother squirming into his bed. At the feel of those spindly limbs and feet, cold from the floor, and the boyish smell that accompanied them, Malik realised just how much Kadar meant to him. “ _Shoo malak,_ Kadar?” muttered Malik as he raised his arm to let his brother burrow beneath it. Kadar grunted, and then said no more. Malik knew better than to pry for an answer, and so he decided to resign himself to sleep.

He woke up the next morning with no feeling in his right arm. He couldn’t even feel Kadar’s hair. He gingerly raised himself, shaking his arm out to try and regain feeling. He stood, looking over his shoulder at Kadar before exiting the bedroom and dragging himself to the bathroom.

It was late enough already, and so Malik had to hurry to have a shower and to get himself dressed. He managed, of course – he always did. He called up to Kadar to get a move on, heading out to the car.

He froze in the door of the garage. He must have forgotten to close the car door yesterday… he grimaced, grateful that the garage was securely locked. “Kadar! Hurry up!”

“Coming!” Kadar scooted down the steps, slamming the door behind him. He paused just before getting into the car. Malik slid into the driver’s seat, and stopped. He slammed the car door with a contemplative look on his face, and Kadar’s heart squeezed in his chest. Malik inhaled.

“It smells different in here,” Malik observed, his voice laced with suspicion. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to set Kadar on edge. He shifted in his seat.

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t smell anything.”

Malik narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You aren’t a pot-head, are you?”

“No!” Kadar exclaimed. “No, of course not!”

 

Malik was sick of working an hour into the day. He was thankful that he had that damn class of seniors in the last period of the day. When that time finally arrived he cursed whatever gods he could think of and braced himself for an influx of one of the most boisterous classes he had ever taught.

Sure enough, since it was the last period of the day, nobody was willing to pay attention. In a last desperate attempt, Malik announced a study lesson. He watched from his seat at the front of the class as the students chatted and brawled and argued and laughed. He turned his attention back to his laptop.

He was roused from his work by a knocking on his desk. Looking up, he saw Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad looking down with sincere golden eyes.

“ _Hal beemkani mosa’adatuk?_?” asked Malik darkly. Altaïr seemed to be trying to sort out something in his head – perhaps trying to win an internal battle – and he was looking at Malik’s hands instead of his face. “Altaïr, look at me.”

Altaïr raised his eyes, his jaw clenching and unclenching. He reached up to scratch at the slight stubble lacing his chin. “ _Nam_ ,” he replied in the same subdued voice he had used the day before. “But not now. Can I… can I talk to you after class?”

Malik nodded slowly. “Of course,” he replied hesitantly.

For the rest of the class Malik was constantly distracted by Altaïr, who was sitting silently next to Maria Thorpe, just looking at him. Malik felt unnerved by his gaze, and considering Altaïr’s unwillingness to look at Malik before, Malik thought it was very odd, but didn’t let it faze him.

After the bell went, Altaïr rose along with all the other students, but instead of filing towards the door he moved against the current of students towards the front of the class where Malik was finishing up and closing his laptop.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Malik demanded, making sure his tone was hard and cold as stone. “You have been acting strangely ever since yesterday.”

Altaïr grimaced, the scar over his lips winking. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re lying. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying!”

“You are. I can see it in your face.”

Altaïr had moved his hand up to rub at the base of his throat nervously. He looked at Malik – properly – and then he almost flinched, looking away.

“Altaïr, for God’s sake tell me what’s wrong!” Malik exploded, standing and banging his hand down on the desk. Altaïr’s eyes flashed to life with the fire Malik had grown so used to seeing and he bared his teeth in defence.

“I fucked your brother,” Altaïr lashed out viciously, his bared teeth turning up into a grin at Malik’s dawning expression of horror.

“You _what_?!” Malik retaliated hotly, his voice full of scorn. He felt as if he was about to burst an artery… or smash Altaïr’s head into the desk. Altaïr leaned in, bracing his fists on the desk.

“I fucked your little brother,” he repeated, his voice low. “Kadar, was it? He was asking for it. And do you know where we did it? In your car.”  
Malik snapped his teeth shut. He had surpassed horror and loathing. He was seeing red. He _knew_ it! The entire interior of his car had smelt like sex. Kadar had been acting strangely – especially when Malik had noticed the smell, which was only faint since Malik had left the car door open _all night_. Suddenly Malik lashed out, punching Altaïr across the jaw. Altaïr staggered back a step, spitting out blood. The skin over his cheekbone had split. Altaïr turned, his expression hostile. “Is that all you’ve got, Al-Sayf?”

Malik rounded the desk, grabbing the front of Altaïr’s hoodie. If he had had his other arm he would have punched him again, but he had to settle for jerking his knee up. Altaïr managed to twist out of his grip smoothly, blocking the punch that Malik threw afterwards. Malik wasn’t disheartened by Altaïr’s skills, and threw blow after blow. Malik managed to land one more punch over Altaïr’s right eye before Altaïr knocked out his knees from underneath him and he stumbled, giving the student time to twist his arm up behind his back.

“ _Bas_!” Altaïr barked. Malik could feel his tie straining against his neck.

“Let go of me,” he growled, and consequently shook off Altaïr’s grasp, straightening off. “You disgust me. Get out of my sight.”

Altaïr caught Malik’s arm as he made to turn away. Altaïr was looking at him now, and his eyes were positively smouldering.

“No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Arabic**  
>  _Bas_ = enough  
>  _Lā afham_ = I don't understand  
>  _Hal beemkani mosa’adatuk?_ = Can I help you?


	10. At the Villa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leonardo delivers some paintings to Maria Auditore... and things don't go the way he expected.

**X: Leonardo da Vinci**

Ezio would have, in any other circumstance, found Leonardo’s reaction to his presence quite amusing. He would have found it amusing in the parking lot, perhaps, or in a park in the city… but not here.

Leonardo had been ignoring Ezio whenever he got the change for the last few days. Admittedly, it was a difficult task for the charismatic young artist who had believed he’d found a firm friend in Ezio Auditore. Leonardo didn’t feel betrayed, as such… he knew Ezio would never betray him. He didn’t feel violated, either. That day in his studio… he was completely prepared to admit that he was just as willing as Ezio was. They still shouldn’t have done it.

On the Friday afternoon that week, when Leonardo arrived back at his apartment, the first thing he did was push all the clutter off his coffee table and pour himself a (maybe a few more than one) glass of wine. Usually, Leonardo would draw or build something when he was feeling overly stressed; this time, however, he knew better than to try. He couldn’t trust his hand… oftentimes Leonardo couldn’t control what the end product of his handiwork would be, and this time he didn’t want to risk it. His phone, lying idly on the table, began to buzz. Looking down at the lit screen, Leonardo twisted the stem of the glass between his long, dextrous fingers and sighed. He briefly thought back to how embarrassed he had been whenever he had been in the same room as Ezio, and he almost began to laugh at himself. The young Auditore was handsome, full of insatiable energy and positively bursting with life and charisma. The girls loved him, the boys admired him and he was a favourite of all the teachers.

Luckily, Leonardo thought vaguely, he wasn’t at his old school where his grin was always accompanied by a bloodied nose. God knows how many times _that_ cartilage had been broken.

Chuckling, Leonardo put down the glass and stood up, smoothing out the creases in his shirt. The phone had stopped buzzing by now, but it jerked every now and again with a new message. Leonardo ignored them all. It was Friday afternoon – the least he could do was to give himself a moment or two of peace, right?

Much later that night the landline rang. Hardly anybody rang the landline – Leonardo didn’t know his mother, and his father didn’t make much of an effort to keep in touch any more… curiosity got the better of him, and he sauntered over to the phone to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Leonardo?”

Leonardo’s gut wrenched with indecision. He didn’t know whether to be happy or worried. “Ah, _madonna Auditore_!” he replied genially. “Maria, how may I assist you?”

“Leonardo,” Maria Auditore began in her pleasing voice. Leonardo could tell that she wore a smile. “I was wondering if I would be able to hang those paintings tomorrow! Claudia is away at the moment and Ezio has fallen quite ill, I’m afraid, and I am not the young woman I once was – would it be too much trouble if you brought them over?”

“Certainly not,” replied Leonardo. “It would be a pleasure. What time would you like me to bring them over?”

There was a pause. “Tomorrow evening, if you would be so kind, _messere_ ,” Maria replied. “I have quite a busy day tomorrow and I will not be free until then. Feel free to stay for dinner, also!”

“I will see you then, _madonna mia_.”

“ _Bene!_ Until then, Leonardo!”

It was only when Leonardo placed the phone back into the cradle that he realised what a mess he had gotten himself into.

***

The next morning was reserved for a long, light breakfast accompanied by many little notebooks and scrap metal. Leonardo had a bad habit – at least, he _thought_ it was bad – of eating with one hand and engaging the other with some menial activity such as sketching a lamp or a tap or making a little man out of whatever was lying around. Thus, the artist was late for a lot of things and had a reputation for his unpunctuality.

He finished his breakfast when most other people were beginning their lunch – granted, he _did_ wake up a little late this morning… and besides, it was a Saturday morning at the beginning of the term. He could allow himself a little leverage, right?

It took only a matter of minutes for Leonardo to scrape his plate and stack the dishes into the dishwasher. Clearing up the scrap metal and wood lying all over the counter was another matter entirely; Leonardo knew better than anyone what it was like to stand on a sharp lego-like piece of metal at two o’clock in the morning. By the time he stood in his living room ready to move on it was a little after noon. He knew he had a few hours before he needed to begin his preparation for the transportation of Maria Auditore’s paintings. They were precious, and it took copious amounts of padding to stem Leonardo’s nervousness whenever he moved them outside his door.

He swayed into the room that served as his studio, his entire body swinging with the languid bearings of an artist. His left hand tapped against the wall and his knee as he sat down at his easel, engaged only when he made to pull the well-worn linen smock down over his head. He would have to do without a model today, but no matter – his imagination would suffice.

Leonardo whistled to himself as he went about organising his things on the low table beside him. There was already paper clipped to the wooden back of the easel, and in no time flat, Leonardo was already half-way through the anatomy structure. He loved drawing anything to do with science and hydraulics and machines – he also loved drawing bodies. He loved drawing anything, actually.

An hour or so and many sketches later, Leonardo stopped what he was doing. He dropped the charcoal and frowned, reaching up to unconsciously smear his cheek with the stuff as he pensively touched his face. He didn’t like this – he didn’t like it at all.

He reached down and spread the drawings with his hands – yes, yes, they all looked the same. Different poses, different angles, but all… all the same _man_.

 _Dio mio,_ Leonardo thought. _How frustrating _.__

With a certain grave determination that was not often found in Leonardo, the sketches were carefully packed away. Leonardo set himself down to sketch some new machines, perhaps to invent something. By the time he looked up and realised the time, he had gotten only two half-finished designs to a somewhat acceptable state.

His mind switched from science to paintings, and he set about wrapping and tying and trying to secure the paintings in the back seat of his car as best he could without using the seat belt. Eventually he was satisfied, and began off towards his destination.

***

The Auditores were a wealthy family. Descended from a long line of Italian bankers, they were the type of people who mingled with the rich crowd. Unlike his cousins, Ezio was definitely part of the ‘rich crowd’, despite being an irresponsible boy just like all the others. Maria was a beautiful, florid woman whose hair was peppered with grey and face peppered with the wisdom that came with raising four children. Claudia was a feisty little strawberry, Leonardo liked to think – she had a tongue as sharp as her attitude, but there was an underlying sweetness that was just as womanly as her dress sense. She was only a few years younger than Ezio, but she had also transferred schools for punching another girl in the face. Ezio had never been prouder.

Leonardo pulled up outside the Auditore residence just before six. Various rooms were lit with warm light, the gardens brightened by clever landscaping. He painstakingly removed the paintings from the back seat and carried them to the front door. He rang the bell with his elbow, unwilling to set them down on the stone wet from the sprinklers. He heard footsteps approaching; they were a man’s footsteps. Ezio’s father and two brothers had been killed in a terrible accident while they were on vacation in Italy – Ezio didn’t like to talk about it, but he had gone missing for a few months and came back with a new, grave side to him. Leonardo had never gotten the full story from him, but he knew that the three of them were dead. Maria, he knew, had taken it hard. She tried to hide it, just like Claudia did. It was something all the Auditore’s shared.

The door opened and Leonardo was faced with a red-nosed, bleary-eyed Ezio who looked just about ready to slit a few throats. His expression brightened marginally when he saw Leonardo.

“ _Salute, amico mio_ ,” Ezio said, ushering Leonardo inside. “Come in.”

Leonardo entered into the house. The hall was unlit, and he watched as Ezio flicked on the lights while simultaneously blowing his nose into a tissue he had plucked out of the box under his arm. Leonardo nodded to the paintings in his arms. “I have these for your mother,” he told the young Italian man who looked in need of a good sleep. He did look very ill.

“ _Bene_ ,” Ezio replied thickly, his sinuses obviously corked like a bottle. “Put them down somewhere. My mother is out at the moment; she told me to tell you that she is sorry. She thinks me well enough to sort them out, and I have little choice otherwise.” He smiled slightly, and the life was momentarily breathed back into his face.

“You look awful,” Leonardo remarked as he placed the paintings against the wall.

“I feel awful,” laughed Ezio before sneezing violently. “Ah, forgive me.”

Leonardo smiled softly. “You had better get back to bed, Ezio.”

Ezio nodded, and then his dark brows pulled together in a frown. He lurched forward, reaching one arm out to cage the artist’s head against the wall. Leonardo’s stomach clenched.

“No,” Ezio told him in an even tone. “I think we need to talk.”

Leonardo nervously followed Ezio into the next parlour, where Ezio motioned for him to sit. He followed suit, and there was a sort of strained silence that was broken only by Ezio.

“I don’t want it to be like this, Leonardo,” Ezio began, rubbing a hand over his face. His voice was surprisingly subdued and calm – the sincerity in it was perhaps the most shocking of all. “You are one of the few true friends I have, _amico_ , and I do not wish to lose you over what happened. I see now that what I did was stupid – I let my _cazzo_ cloud my judgement, as usual. _Mi dispiace_.”

Leonardo felt his chest swell with hope and adoration for Ezio. He really did love the boy – what type of love he felt was yet to be determined, but it was definitely there. He laughed, reaching out and placing a hand on Ezio’s shoulder.

“Ezio,” he replied jovially. “You could not lose me if you tried.”

Ezio’s face was flooded with relief and gratitude, rekindling the fire that had somehow gone out. When he spoke, his voice sounded that little bit clearer. “Per favore, Leonardo, stay with me awhile. I am alone in this house and I am bored out of my brain.”

“ _Nessun problema_ , Ezio,” Leonardo told him. “I am yours.”

***

“I think they look nice.”

“ _Sì_ , my mother will like them very much.”

Leonardo smiled at Ezio, who caught his eye and smiled back. The room was always so warm when Ezio was there. Ezio sneezed again, though less violently than before, and coughed a few times. Leonardo did not get sick very often, and wasn’t the most susceptible person when it came to sickness, so he had no need to worry. “How did you get so sick?” Leonardo asked.

“It was overnight,” Ezio said, waving his hand around dismissively. “I think I caught it from someone at school.”

Leonardo looked around at the panelled walls hung with his paintings. They were very nice. Quite suddenly, he felt a strong hand touch his back and circle around his waist. Funnily enough, he didn’t feel any kind of dread or humiliation accompany it. It was a pure gesture, and the only thing he could feel was Ezio’s body heat as he was lead from the room.

“I am afraid there is nothing much to do here,” Ezio informed the artist in a grim voice. “Mother confiscated my consoles until term is over and the only thing that is left in the kitchen is ingredients! Not even leftovers!” He turned his face away from Leonardo and sneezed. From his position, Leonardo could feel the full-body jerk of the young man beside him.

“ _Dio mio_ , Ezio, you need to lie down!” exclaimed Leonardo, who took hold of Ezio’s upper arm and lead him up the stairs. He was a frequent visitor to the Auditore house – well, he had been, before… the incident – so he knew where the rooms were located. He pushed open the door to Ezio’s darkened room.

After they had picked their way through the clutter that lay about on the floor, Ezio sank down onto his unmade bed and sighed. Leonardo felt the young man’s hands slide up his arms, rubbing the fabric in just the right way.

“Ezio, what is the matter?”

“Nothing,” Ezio replied in a low voice void of any blockages. Leonardo couldn’t concentrate with Ezio that close to him. He couldn’t concentrate with that honest, earthy smell on his tongue. He could see Ezio’s lips outlined in the darkness, the thin scar running over them. He reached up to trace his finger over the raised scar-tissue, and he felt Ezio’s fingers tighten about his elbows. Their breath was one, tasteless in the mesh. Ezio knew better than to speak, knowing full well that his soft, baritone voice was enough to snap the artist out of his delicate reverie. He opened his lips slightly as Leonardo’s finger traced the crease between his lips, and daringly flicked the tip of his tongue against the fingertip. Not quite himself, Leonardo traced the even line of Ezio’s bottom teeth, moving his other hand to brush the dark hair away from his cheek. He wasn’t sure what had made him feel like this, but he liked it – whatever it was.

Leonardo knew that as soon as their lips touched – a prospect that was looming quite close, now – he would be lost. There had been something barring him the last time they had been this close, but whatever had been there then was not there now. He felt ready to positively _melt_ into this young man.

Then, it happened. Leonardo moved his hand away from Ezio’s mouth and replaced it with his own lips. God, Ezio’s mouth was soft. It didn’t look soft, but it was. _So_ soft, despite the slight chafing around the edges. Leonardo could immediately see why the girls were so eager for Ezio.

It wasn’t long before their kisses surpassed sweet. Ezio’s tongue was as fast and talented as the rest of him was, and soon he was able to pull Leonardo down to him without having the older man throw him off into the wall. In fact, Ezio was able to work Leonardo into such a state that he could pull the artist down and roll him onto his back without so much as a protest. But, of course, Leonardo was still much to sensible for this.

“Ezio,” grunted Leonardo as Ezio kissed the side of his neck. “Ezio, don’t –,”

“Shh, _caro mio_ ,” Ezio breathed, a strong hand moving the hair out of the artist’s eyes. “I will take good care of you.”

After that, all of Leonardo’s thoughts turned to mud. As Ezio unbuttoned his shirt and kissed down his torso and stomach, he descended further into a pit of absolute need. He needed this man. When Ezio slid his trousers down his legs he shivered despite the sweat clinging to his skin.

Before he knew it he was scrabbling at Ezio’s shoulders, his nails biting into the dark Italian skin and leaving angry red marks in their wake. Their bodies slid together, slick with sweat, and Leonardo could feel the marks Ezio had left on his neck and shoulders and – well, everywhere.

“ _Cazzo_ , Ezio,” hissed Leonardo, his back arching off the sweat-soaked mattress. He ground his hips fervently, his lips parted and his breath hitched. Ezio grunted in his ear, his hips moving like pistons as he jutted forward again and again, driving his partner to the very edge of oblivion.

Both were glad that Maria and Claudia were out. Leonardo was not quiet, and Ezio enjoyed himself much more when he could be vocal. Even so, for some reason all he could do was bury his face in the crook of Leonardo’s neck and make small noises. He wasn’t sure why, but he said absolutely nothing, letting Leonardo do all the talking. They reached a thundering climax together, Ezio holding Leonardo tightly in his arms.

***

_“Merda!”_

Ezio began to laugh.

“It isn’t funny, Ezio!” Leonardo shot at him as he vaulted out of the young Italian’s bed and began to kick aside the mess on the floor to find his clothes. “It’s morning already! What if your mother or sister were to find us?”

Ezio sat up, the sunlight filtering through the window and highlighting his form. Leonardo was momentarily struck dumb by the beauty that was so openly laid out before him. He eventually found his clothes and dressed hurriedly.

“Leonardo, calm down,” Ezio told him. “Nobody is here.”

Leonardo looked up from buttoning his shirt. “You’re sick,” he remarked doubtfully. “You don’t sound sick anymore.”

“I was never sick, _caro mio_ ,” Ezio grinned. “I am a good actor, no?”

Leonardo frowned. “Why did you act?”

Ezio got to his knees and crawled over to the edge of the bed. His location granted him enough leverage to reach out and grasp the lapels of Leonardo’s shirt, tugging him forward for a kiss. “I didn’t want to make you feel threatened.”

Leonardo barked out a laugh. “You are cleverer than you give yourself credit for, Ezio,” he smiled, reaching up to run his thumb over Ezio’s lips. “I must go, now,” he mumbled, transfixed by the wonderful colour of Ezio’s eyes. “But I will see you again soon.”

Ezio watched him go from his window, and then happily fell back to sleep as he watched Leonardo’s car disappear around the bend at the end of the street.

“Ah, Ezio,” Leonardo sighed as his fingers tapped the wheel, shaking his head. “You were always a one for trouble.”


	11. Effort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmond decides to try his best in his history class, just to see how things go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I can apologise enough for my absence; I've been caught up in an unbelievable amount of schoolwork, as well as having to go away for a while and building various things in the back yard, so I've been caught up… but now I have time to write and will probably have the story done by January. Again, sorry. Also sorry for how short and un-sexy this chapter is, but I promise I'll make up for it in the next chapter. This chapter hasn't been proof-read, so...

**XI:** **Desmond Miles**

Desmond had been constantly angry ever since his detention. Sometimes it was a deep, simmering anger and other times it was a flaming beacon of fury. Altaïr was slightly worried about him – Ezio found it all very amusing. Desmond’s father hadn’t really noticed his son’s attitude transition, but then again he was never really home anyway.

Desmond wasn’t sure whether it would be best to do well to avoid detentions – that would certainly be the best option, especially considering what had happened in his last detention.

Late one afternoon, Desmond sat at his desk trying to figure out an action plan. He could work hard to get good grades and keep out of any potentially compromising situations, or… or he could just keep doing things the way he always had. The thing that made Desmond furious wasn’t what had happened. It was the aspect – daunting as it was – that he had _liked_ it. He had reacted to it, and had eventually succumbed to whatever side of him had clawed its way out of the deep confines of his conscience.

Reaching up, he brushed his fingers over his lips. As he remembered, his lips began to burn. His lips weren’t the only part of him, either, and before he knew it his fingers were fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. God – why did he _feel_ like this? Why did such… such _filthy_ things turn him on so much? He wanted to get out of his detentions just as much as he wanted to get back into them again.

_Stop it,_ he told himself, grinding his teeth. He did stop, and just in time, too.

“Desmond!” He heard the front door slam and keys jingle. “Are you home?”

“Y-yeah, dad!” Desmond called as he hurriedly – almost clumsily – composed himself. With shaking hands he rearranged his schoolbooks that sat silently on his desk, reaching up to dab at the sweat on his brow. Pushing open the window over his desk, the hit of cooling air hit his cheeks and cleared his head. Not much, but enough. He knew what he had to do – he had to try. He had to do well. He couldn’t afford to fall into such a situation again; he decided then: he would try.

 

 

The next day, Tuesday, he got into Ezio’s car with an expression of grim determination. Ezio noticed immediately, and smiled crookedly. “ _Salute, cuginetto. Come va_?”

Desmond ignored him and shifted his bag in his lap. He had a double period of history, the first thing in the morning. He wasn’t looking forward to it.

Ezio wisely decided not to say anything more, and peered curiously after his cousin as he made his own way to his own class.

Desmond’s heart was aflutter as he walked into his history class. Ezio and Altaïr had commented on his strange mood, but they were so wrapped up in their own problems that they barely gave him a second thought; that was completely fine with Desmond.

So he tried. He sat down and tried as hard as he could. Shaun ignored every answer he tried to give, whether he raised his hand or shouted out. Each worksheet Desmond finished with crisp precision was shunted to the bottom of Shaun’s marking pile as usual, and the teacher acted no different towards him than he usually did. Each chance he got he called Desmond out for something: ‘Pay attention!’ ‘Don’t make me come over there, Miles, or I swear to God you’ll eat your teeth.’ It left Desmond feeling frustrated and angry enough to want to hit someone.

He crashed into his house that afternoon; his father was working, as usual, so he was free to bellow curses and death threats to his bedroom wall before picking up the phone and punching in Ezio’s number.

“ _Che cosa_?”

“Ezio, I need to talk –,”

“Not now, _cugino!_ ”

“I’m going to punch someone, Ezio, I just need –,”

“No, Desmond! I just got enormously cockblocked; I cannot speak to you right now!” As Ezio made to hang up, Desmond could have sworn he called out ‘Leonardo’.

Desmond stared at the phone in his hand before launching it across the room. It hit the wall, crashing to the ground in more than a few pieces. He began to pace, chewing on his thumbnail. _Okay,_ he thought. _We’re going to do this._

 

Desmond had history the next day. In fact, it was in his last two periods, which gave him the convenient opportunity to do nothing but think about it all day.

He sat in the same place as he usually did that afternoon. Nothing was out of place and nothing was notably different, but somehow it felt strange. Everything was the same as before, and Desmond had to keep reminding himself that it was so. _Now,_ he thought to himself, _shit’s gonna go down._ He had promised himself he would try… but knowing how much failing pissed Shaun off made it a very difficult notion to follow.

Desmond shook his head to clear the thoughts away. He didn’t have time to be dwelling on things like this; he had more important matters to attend to, like the pop quiz Shaun had decided to spring on them.

There was a good-natured groan from the class, but Desmond remained silent. Was he the only one who hated the man? Did Shaun’s cocky gestures and flippant remarks rile nobody else? It would seem so. He tapped his pen against the top of his desk, chewing the inside of his cheek.

It took Desmond five minutes to even look down at the test. He’d been glowering at Shaun from under his knitted eyebrows for a good part of those five minutes, and only after someone sneezed at the back of the room did Desmond finally remember what he was supposed to be doing. Looking down, he swallowed, and clicked the pen against his jaw.

_Hey_ , he thought, dubiously trying to suppress any kind of false security. _This isn’t too bad._

The one thing Desmond had gathered about history education was that it was comprised mostly of dates. Desmond knew he was good with numbers, and with his knowledge of numbers came an ability to remember dates as easily as his times tables. With Desmond’s profound knowledge of dates and historical reasoning, he was able to fill in all (or most) of the blanks. Usually he would have doodled vulgar little pictures of Shaun along the margins of the pages, but this time they remained bare and all the pen markings were where they were supposed to be. Towards the end of the test Desmond hazarded a look up towards the front of the classroom, and saw Shaun looking at him with a cocked eyebrow. When he realised Desmond had caught him looking he shot the boy a glare of disapproval before returning to his work without so much as a flicker of afterthought. Desmond rolled his eyes and returned to checking his paper.

At the end of the lesson Shaun collected the papers, and as he took Desmond’s he was silent and obviously suspicious.

Desmond grit his teeth as he looked at the clock, watching the end of the lesson slowly draw closer. He was waiting for that dreaded ‘See me after class, Mr Miles’ that always preceded the bell.

“See me after class, Mr Miles.”

As the other students filed out of the class, Desmond sauntered up to the desk with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched.

Shaun sat looking up at him over the top of his glasses. His eyebrows were pulled down into a knotted frown. “Are you okay, Miles?” Shaun asked, his voice surprisingly sincere. “It almost looked, to me, as if you were trying today.”

Desmond opened his mouth and then closed it again. Shaking his head, Shaun shooed him out of the classroom.

Desmond stood outside the room, noting the lack of detention slips he had. Altaïr happened to come strolling past, and he looked almost as surprised as Desmond felt.

“Desmond!” Altaïr grinned, laughing. “It is nice to see you on time for once!”


	12. Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Altaïr finds himself caught between a rock and a hard place and two brothers who end up being a little closer than most.

**XII: Altaïr ibn-La’Ahad**

The whole incident with Kadar had left Altaïr a bit shaken.

After all, Altaïr had never _talked_ to the kid before, let alone done anything remotely like fucking him.

Altaïr knew Kadar was a virgin the moment he had set eyes on him. He was like a smaller, cuter version of Malik, without all the scowls and snaps and ‘fuck you’s. He was also a lot softer and sweeter than Malik ever had been and probably ever would be. Even so… Kadar was a good fuck, yes, but he couldn’t match Malik’s experience or skill. Malik Al-Sayf was as talented a wordsmith as he was a lover, and Altaïr had never felt anything quite like it.

Altaïr had spent most of the afternoon pacing around his apartment, every single noisy device turned on. He could only think when there was noise. And then, the next day, he had gone to school and gotten into a fistfight with his psychology professor.

“Get out of my sight,” Malik had snarled in pure disgust after flinging a seething Altaïr off him. Altaïr had grabbed his arm as he made to leave, stopping the older man’s escape.

“No.”

Malik’s eyes snapped up to meet his. They were dark and angry, his nostrils flaring.

Altaïr tightened his grip on Malik’s wrist, grabbing the stump of his arm with his free hand, forcing the professor backwards with strong, firm strides. Malik was torn between being alarmed and furious; he wanted to throw Altaïr to the ground and pulverise him, but at the same time he wanted to be fucked absolutely senseless.

Malik lashed out, landing another punch across Altaïr’s jaw before the latter seized him with both hands by the front of his shirt and practically slammed him down onto the desk. Malik was stronger than Altaïr would have guessed, and the two were sweating with the effort of keeping the other under control.

“Give up, Al-Sayf,” snarled Altaïr. Malik almost spat in his face, but was cut off as they shifted and their groins ground together.

Malik grunted and Altaïr hissed ‘fuck’, but neither made any significant effort to move. Altaïr moved one hand down to Malik’s hip, gripping it as he gyrated between the professor’s legs. Malik chuckled breathlessly.

“You are so obstinate,” he breathed as he flexed his hips against Altaïr’s, feeling the sharp hardness between them. Altaïr didn’t reply for a few moments, but suddenly looked up and engaged Malik in a deep, angry kiss. Their lips mashed together with neither effort nor inhibition, leaving Malik hot and bothered and gasping for breath. In retrospect, Malik had never had his pants off faster. Altaïr probably hadn’t either, but what with his history of drunken sexual encounters he could never really be sure. All Malik could think about was the delightful thought of beating Altaïr to a bloody pulp and the notion of being well and truly done over.

Altaïr grunted, burying his sweaty forehead in the crook of Malik’s neck. His hips flexed almost violently, rutting like pistons. Malik felt him bite down hard enough to draw blood, but at that point in time he couldn’t have cared less. He wanted to be marked.

Altaïr felt nails scrape down his back, leaving a stinging pain that Altaïr positively revelled in. Each muscle in his body was tense, bunching and releasing with each thrust. The pressure in his skull was building and building, and soon he believed that his entire head would explode through his ears. He was bent over Malik, his head hidden and hanging down, and so when he straightened up on the verge of orgasm, the sudden hit of cold air and rush of blood from his brain pushed him right over the edge. He let out a low, guttural moan, and felt Malik tense beneath him. After two more hefty thrusts Malik grabbed at his left wrist, his hips jerking every which-way. Altaïr bent down again, feeling himself grow soft, kissing behind Malik’s ear and making sure to leave a dark hickey just above his collar.

Malik got back into his pants almost as fast as Altaïr had taken them off, picking up his things as storming angrily out of the classroom. He left his student with his jeans around his knees and his professor’s taste on his tongue. Altaïr watched him go with a smirk.

Ezio and Desmond had, as it seemed, grown tired of waiting for Altaïr to show off and had driven home without him. He had to walk home, and as he did he felt the satisfaction of having fucked Malik fade and morph into a strange sense of guilt. Altaïr was not used to feeling guilty: he led too carefree a lifestyle to have such worries. The last time he had felt guilty was when he’d run out into the road and caused a car to high-tail into a streetlight. Even so, he’d gotten over it.

No. That was a lie. Altaïr had never gotten over that. He’d fled that scene, and he’d never been caught, but he still felt awful whenever he thought about it.

He decided to change course and take the bus to Malik’s neighbourhood instead of to his apartment. As he strolled down the road with his hands in his pockets, he couldn’t help but notice what a nice neighbourhood it was. When he was a kid, Altaïr had lived in dingy backstreets. His mother had died in childbirth and his father had been killed when he was only eleven, leaving him to be admitted to an orphanage. It had been squalid. He had always aspired to live in one of the nice neighbourhoods with the big houses arranged in neat rows; neighbourhoods where the power lines ran under the road and there were rows of perfectly grown trees and meticulously tended gardens. Happy families, happy homes.

But, Altaïr reasoned rather wearily, there was time enough for that yet. Right now he had other things to see to.

The sky had grown dark by the time he reached the Al-Sayf residence. He must’ve been at school longer than he’d realised… and the walk to Malik’s house wasn’t short, either.

He rang the bell and stood awkwardly on the front porch, rocking back and forth. He’d never had to wait properly before: whenever he visited people he would usually just rock up with a carton of booze and glide through the door. This time there was no booze, and Altaïr definitely didn’t think there’d be any gliding.

The door remained closed and unanswered. Altaïr abandoned the bell and hammered against the front door. There was a great deal of thumping from the top storey of the house, and a yelled ‘I’m coming!’ as someone clumsily descended the stairs.

The door opened, and Altaïr was faced with a certain Kadar Al-Sayf who had just gotten out of the shower and smelled inexplicably good. Kadar seemed almost as shocked as Altaïr was annoyed.

“Is Malik home?” Altaïr asked pointedly, in no mood for anybody’s shit, not even Kadar’s.

Kadar shook his head, blinking those blue eyes. “No, he went out.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No, only not to follow him.” Kadar paused before continuing slowly, “I think he’s gone out drinking. He was pretty upset when he came home, and he only goes out this late when he’s upset.”

Altaïr felt his gut wrench. Shit. He reached up to rub his neck.

“Do you want to come in? It’s getting dark, so…”

Altaïr sighed, shrugging. “Sure. What the hell; I might as well.”

Kadar closed the door after him, and Altaïr realised that he hadn’t been _inside_ Malik’s house before. Damn, too, it was nice.

“Got any alcohol?” he asked Kadar. “Vodka would be best right now.”

Kadar looked like a deer in the headlights. “Uh… in the kitchen, there might be…” he gestured vaguely towards the kitchen, and Altaïr set off immediately. He rifled through the cupboards until he found what he was looking for – and it hadn’t even been opened.

He sat at the kitchen island drinking straight from the bottle until he could feel his tightly-wound nerves relax. He left the bottle on the counter as he turned to see Kadar standing in the doorway. His cheeks were slightly flushed and his eyes shone. Altaïr frowned. “You okay?”

Kadar started forward, dropping to his knees between Altaïr’s legs and making to undo his belt. Altaïr just laughed and pushed him away before lifting him up onto the counter and kissing him. Kadar almost whined under him; his hands went around Altaïr’s neck and his legs wound about his waist. The kid had the softest, sweetest lips Altaïr had ever tasted.

How they ended up in Kadar’s room Altaïr couldn’t remember. The next thing he knew he had Kadar’s hips in his hands, his palms slick against his skin. Kadar’s dark hair was splayed out over the pale covers of his bed, his hands fisted in the sheets as he tried his hardest not to make too much noise. Altaïr placed kisses along the boy’s back, feeling the ridges of his spine and the slenderness of his waist. Kadar shivered, his skin rising as he pressed his hips up against Altaïr’s clothed groin. He was achingly hard, and as he pulled away his boxers he felt a glorious release of pressure. He rubbed the head of his cock up the ridge of Kadar’s backside, feeling the dip and resistance of the entrance he so dearly wanted to penetrate. He was slick with precum, sweat cascading in occasional rivulets over his shoulders and down his temples with the fleeing summer heat. He stroked himself a few times before speaking in a lust-cracked voice. “Prepare yourself for me.”

He watched as Kadar looked at him over his shoulder, his wet lips parted as he panted. Swallowing, Kadar brought his fingers up to brush his bottom lip, his tongue flicking out before he began to suck on them and coat them with saliva. His fingers came away wet and shining, and he reached back to circle his entrance with them. Altaïr moved his knee forward to knead Kadar’s erection, causing the younger boy to groan and bury his face in the sheets.

“I told you to prepare yourself, not fuck around.”

Kadar pushed one finger past the tight ring of muscle, working it in and out until he was ready to add the second. Altaïr highly doubted the kid was getting any, and he’d only been fucked once before, so he wasn’t surprised at Kadar’s near-virgin tightness. He added a second finger, then a third. Grinning and unable to help himself, Altaïr reached down with the hand that wasn’t busily engaged with his cock to hook a finger in alongside Kadar’s, pulling down as Kadar’s moved up, stretching him even further and causing the boy to groan.

“Altaïr, _please_ ,”

Altaïr pulled Kadar’s hand away and lurched forward, running his cock up and down the parting between Kadar’s cheeks. He placed his thumb against the top of his cock as he positioned it at Kadar’s entrance, slowly pushing in; he didn’t want to hurt the kid too much.

Kadar moaned, his eyes rolling back in his head. He clenched his jaw, then slackened it, then clenched it again. The pain stung, but as Altaïr pushed in all the way the mere satisfaction of being filled made Kadar feel a lot better. Alta:ir was gentle at first, moving in and out slow enough for Kadar to get used to the girth of him. It was then the pace increased. Altaïr gripped Kadar’s hips, pulling them back as his hips jammed forward before pulling almost all the way out and slamming back in again. He pushed Kadar’s head down into the mattress, arching his back and pulling his hips high into the air so he had better access. With each thrust Kadar groaned and huffed, the noises muffled against the sweaty sheets. The movement soon became flawless and unhindered, leaving Kadar crying out in pleasure and Altaïr grunting low in his throat. With each backward thrust of his hips Kadar ground against Altaïr’s thigh that was still between his legs, inevitably sending him in a crashing spiral of orgasm. Kadar practically screamed, his whole body going through a series of tremors.

Altaïr’s vigilant ears picked up the sound of the door behind him swinging open, and he turned to look over his shoulder. His torso seized up and his grip tightened on Kadar’s hips, only causing him to groan even more.

Malik stood in the doorway, his expression conflicted: he was battling between horror and shock, that much was obvious. Altaïr had never seen him so mortified. The bottle of vodka, still mostly full, that he held in his hand dropped to the floor with a dull thud.

The sudden clamp and spasm of Kadar’s muscles, alongside Malik’s candid stare, caused Altaïr to thrust a few more times with much more force than he had before, before he held himself flush against Kadar’s body and climaxed so intensely that he saw white. Kadar collapsed beneath him like a puddle of boneless goo, panting and sweating, his entrance gasping.

“Ibn-La’Ahad!” Malik’s bellow caused Kadar to jump half way to the ceiling. For someone who had been previously fucked half to death and had the consistency of soup, he sure regained his energy fast. He began to babble in Arabic very fast, his face very frightened, and when he made to run out of the room Malik shoved him back in, telling him to stay right where he was. As for Altaïr, he had been expecting such an outburst sooner or later, and so he only flinched. Kadar had collapsed back down on the bed, curling into a tight ball and burying his face in the pillows.

Malik lurched forward, his blind fury causing him to lash out with his fist. His anger made hi clumsy, and so Altaïr had no problem parrying his blow before grabbing him and twisting his arm behind him. His nose skimmed Malik’s cheek, his teeth grazing his jaw. Malik was quivering with rage. He wore only tracksuits and a t-shirt, and he let out an outraged sound as Altaïr pulled his shirt up and over his head. “Altaïr! What are you –,” he was cut off as Altaïr kissed him, hard and hot, still trapping Malik’s arm behind his back. He then reached up and fisted his hand in Malik’s short dark hair, pulling his head away. Hooking his foot under Malik’s ankles he tripped him up, causing him to stumble forward. Altaïr still had Malik’s arm twisted up his back and his hand in Malik’s hair, directing almost complete control over him. Alta:ir was quite sick of this.

He pushed Malik’s head down to Kadar’s until their lips met. Malik turned his face away, cursing. Altaïr pulled him up again, snarling in his ear. “You will do as I say or I swear I will dislocate your arm.”

Malik couldn’t spit at him from this angle, and Kadar would never cross Altaïr anyway, so as Altaïr forced Malik’s head down for the second time, there was much less resistance. Malik grunted as he felt Kadar’s soft, sweet, trembling lips, and the tentative kisses soon became hot and heavy, and Malik began to struggle again. Altaïr let him go, and his freed hand moved up to cup Kadar’s face. Altaïr saw the glimmer of tongues, and Kadar wrapped his arms around his brother’s shoulders. Altaïr felt his cock stir, and he knelt on the bed before the two kissing brothers. He stroked his cock until it was hard again, and then ran his hand through Kadar’s hair. Kadar looked up dreamily, his hand moving to the base of Altaïr’s cock. He broke away from Malik to kiss along its length, sucking at the tip for a bit before taking the head into his mouth. Malik began to kiss along Kadar’s neck, sneaking a glare at Altaïr every so often. Altaïr grabbed Malik’s hair and moved his mouth to his cock as well. The two brothers sucked him at the same time, both tongues working magic. Altaïr let his head tip back and his eyes flutter closed. He had never felt anything like this: it was awesome. The two kissed around his cock, and without any warning Altaïr came all over Malik’s face. The sight of Malik glaring with spunk over his face would have made Altaïr laugh had he not been so aroused. Kadar began to lick the come off his brother’s face, and the two began to kiss again. Altaïr managed to wrestle Malik out of his pants, rolling Kadar’s supple body over onto his brother’s. Kadar had begun to moan again, and Altaïr was glad that Malik hadn’t put up too much of a fight. He bent down to Malik. “Fuck him.”

Malik almost choked. “What –,”

“ _Fuck him_.”

Malik was breathing hard as he reached down to run his fingers over his rock-hard erection before sliding it over the slick skin of his brother’s entrance. He groaned as Kadar straightened up, sinking down on his cock and rolling his hips. Malik grasped Kadar’s thigh as the younger Al-Sayf rode him with a fervent vigour, Altaïr watching hungrily as they fucked. Smirking, he moved up behind Kadar, who had thrown his head back and was moaning with reckless abandon. Altaïr slid one hand up over Kadar’s chest and used the other one to direct his cock to where Kadar was riding his brother’s. Kadar made a shocked noise as Altaïr slid two fingers in alongside Malik’s cock. After a few minutes he managed to push in. Kadar stilled, his neck arched as he leaned back against Altaïr’s shoulder. A while later, once Kadar had adjusted, he began to rock back and forward. Malik groaned, his hand moving to his brother’s cock.

“Malik,” Kadar whined, sinking forward to kiss him frantically as he rocked his hips back against Altaïr’s.

“Fuck,” Altaïr groaned as he moved his hips faster, the feel of Malik’s cock rubbing against his making stars burst before his eyes. He felt Malik’s hips jerk upwards as he was nearing climax, Kadar bouncing up and down, his face one of ecstasy. Altaïr grabbed his hips, causing Kadar to cry out and climax all over his brother’s stomach.

Altaïr pulled out, pulling Kadar’s mouth onto his cock. The boy sucked, taking most of it into his throat. Malik began to kiss lazily up his thigh, and Altaïr pushed Kadar’s head back. The boy held his mouth open, and Altaïr pumped his cock and flexed his hips as he came straight into Kadar’s mouth.

Kadar smiled and sunk down next to Malik, nuzzling back into his brother’s side and falling into a light doze. Malik stood up, pulling on his trousers and stalking over to Altaïr who was, now, fully dressed. He pulled Altaïr up and snarled, “Get out of my house right now, or God forbid I will disembowel you.” He shoved Altaïr toward the door. “Get out!” he barked.

As Altaïr walked back down the street, he cast a glance back over his shoulder at Malik’s house and smiled.


	13. Reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malik and Kadar reconcile themselves and try to sort out what the fuck has just happened

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: some more Al-Sayf incest. Just thought I'd throw a heads-up.

**XIII: Malik Al-Sayf**

Malik was mortified.

What the _hell_ was he thinking?! What was _Altaïr_ thinking? Malik had to take a walk to keep his head. He had pulled on his pants and his shirt, washed his face and hightailed his way out of the house. Kadar had called after him, but Malik had ignored him. He was relieved at the evening air that was much cooler than the muggy, hot air of Kadar’s bedroom. He looked down at his bare feet, allowing the breeze to lick at the back of his neck.

Malik hadn’t cried since sixth grade; he was about to break that streak, with tears filling his eyes and stinging the back of his nose. He grit his teeth together angrily, his stride set at a firm, unforgiving pace. How _dare_ that novice swagger into his _own_ house and fuck his _own_ brother? How _dare_ he?

He pressed the heels of his hands to her temples, trying to hold back the tears. He was no better! He had succumbed to whatever dark demons had possessed Altaïr and… and he’d slept with Kadar. His own brother!

Malik had to sit down in the gutter at that point; he couldn’t take it any longer. The thought of what he had done to his baby brother was enough to make him want to throw himself into oncoming traffic. He buried his head in his hands, utterly defeated.

After a while he heard tentative footsteps on the pavement. The footfalls were soft, those of bare feet, and they stopped just short of where Malik sat. He still did not look up.

“Mal?”

Kadar’s voice made Malik feel even worse. He felt his brother sit down in the gutter beside him, not too far but not too close. “Mal, talk to me.”

Malik would not look up. “How can you speak to me?” he asked from between his palms. “How can you even _look_ at me after what I’ve done?”

Kadar’s voice was still soft, still forgiving, as he leaned his shoulder against his brother’s. “I’m… I’m not angry at you, Malik.” He paused, fiddling with the sleeve of his shirt. “I could never be angry at you.”

Malik looked up, glad to have been able to beat away the tears. Kadar didn’t seem to be an emotional wreck like Malik expected him to be. Perhaps Malik had underestimated him all along… perhaps he was stronger than Malik believed him to be. He was bathed in the halo of the streetlamp the two sat beneath, his expression more concerned for Malik than for himself.

“When our parents died,” Malik said lowly, “I promised myself that I would never _ever_ let you get hurt. Even though we lived in fucking _filth_ , I made sure I tried my hardest. I got into university, I became a teacher, I saved and saved and worked three jobs and bought a house and finally had enough to send you to a proper school and give you a proper education! And now I’ve gone and fucked it all up. I’m so, _so_ sorry, Kadar.”

Kadar flung his arms around Malik’s shoulders and hugged him tightly. “Malik, I love you, I love you so much. You’ve done all this for me and I haven’t been able to give anything back to you! Don’t say sorry, Mal, please don’t.”

Malik was almost sick with relief. Kadar wasn’t angry at him… thank God. Malik lifted his arm and put it around his brother, kissing the top of his head. “Thank you, Kadar,” he mumbled. “Thank you.”

Kadar helped Malik to his feet. “Let’s go home, huh?” Kadar asked with a rueful smile, and Malik ruffled his hair as the two strolled back to their house.

 

Malik closed the door against the cooling air, the ceiling fans whirring overhead. Kadar stood bare-foot in the middle of the living room, scratching absently behind his ear. Malik went over to him and hugged him as best a one-arm man could, glad that Kadar hadn’t either killed him or disowned him. As he hugged him, Kadar stretched up onto his toes and kissed Malik’s cheek. His hands then moved to Malik’s neck and he kissed the corner of Malik’s mouth. His brother frowned. “Kadar –,”

“I love you, Mal,” Kadar whispered, his voice cracking. “I love you. Please.”

Kadar kissed Malik’s lips, then, and Malik wasn’t sure to do the logical thing and gently push Kadar away or to follow his heart and follow his brother’s lead.

“Kadar,” Malik muttered and took the boy by the waist, kissing him back. Kadar had the sweetest lips he’d ever known, and his love was much deeper than that. Kadar clung to his brother as they stumbled blindly up the stairs, towards Malik’s bedroom this time, towards the bigger bed. Malik slid his hand underneath Kadar’s shirt, slipping it over his head and feeling the taut muscles of his back as he lay the boy down. Kadar fumbled with both their clothes and, albeit a little clumsy, managed to get everything off without too much trouble. Malik placed tender kisses down over Kadar’s collarbones and over his sternum, sojourning at his navel before moving lower. Kadar sighed as Malik turned his attention to the insides of his thighs. His cock slowly came to life again, twitching for attention; Malik gave it that soon enough, and felt Kadar’s fingers weave through his hair and his thighs quiver on either side of his head.

Malik moved up, rifling about in the drawers beside his bed before slowly and gently rocking into his brother. As they moved, now as one, Malik held his brother close. Kadar whispered his name in his ear, and Malik could feel him smile and groan lowly as the two experienced a fiery, smouldering, mutual climax.

Malik lay staring at the ceiling, Kadar tucked into his side.

“So you aren’t angry at me?” he asked once more, just to be sure. Kadar chuckled.

“Of course I’m not. I feel a satisfaction, now, as if a hole has been filled.” Kadar kissed his shoulder sleepily. “This isn’t just a one-time thing, right?”

Malik stroked his hair silently. “I’ll do whatever you want to do,” he replied. Kadar seemed happy enough with his answer, and dozed off beside Malik, who fell asleep soon afterwards.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the sudden no-warning incest in the last chapter; it was probably a bit surprising, but I had to fill in the tags one way or another. Anyway, there shouldn't be too much on it in the future. :)


	14. Desmond's Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desmond pays Shaun a visit to discuss his grades… but things don't really go to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Bonjour_ and sorry for the delay (again): I travelled south to visit my relatives for a while and didn't have access to the internet. I'm back in business, though - this time for real (I promise).

**XIV: Desmond Miles**

 

Desmond threw his bag down and stretched his arms wide. Finally, it was the weekend, and he felt like doing fuck-all. He had arranged to meet his cousins in the city that afternoon so they could hit the clubs early. He showered and changed quickly, shooting himself a wink in the mirror before scooting downstairs. His father sat at the dining table, his laptop open before him as well as a number of binders and whatnot.

“Where are you going?” he asked his son, the glow of the screen highlighting his features. Desmond wheeled around sheepishly to face his father.

“I’m going out with Ezio and Altaïr,” he explained. “I won’t be back late, I promise.”

Bill cocked an eyebrow and then sighed, shaking his head. “Go on, then. Just try not to get yourself killed.”

Desmond nodded and slipped out of the house, walking to the nearest bus stop. He planned to get completely wasted, and he knew better than to take a car. He flirted briefly with a few cute girls while waiting for his bus, and a few more while on it, but all notions of getting laid depended on the clubs.

Ezio was standing idly beneath a street light, leaning against the pole and looking down at his phone with a half-smile. Desmond approached him and he looked up with a full smile, pocketing his phone and greeting his cousin.

“Where’s Altaïr?” Desmond asked, looking around as if he expected to see him somewhere. Ezio waved his hand dismissively, rolling his eyes.

“Busy,” he replied with a hint of annoyed sarcasm. He was obviously pissed at the Syrian’s absence. “He said he had other things he needed to do.” He clicked his tongue. “Tch, _bastardo_! What is more important than this, huh?”

Desmond laughed and clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Ezio, buddy, calm down.”

Ezio sighed deeply, tipping his head back before rolling playfully onto the balls of his feet and jiggling his shoulders. “ _Mi dispice,_ ” he apologised, spreading his hands. “Let us go and have fun without him, _cuginetto!_ ”

And so they did. The two of them formed a dynamic duo as the hopped from bar to bar, club to club, the pulsing lights and thumping music causing them to forget all their worries and focus only on the night ahead.

Ezio had drifted off to talk to a gaggle of pretty girls who, like most other women, were practically throwing themselves at his feet. Desmond, what with his side-job as a bartender, showed the pretty female behind the bar a trick or two that had her clapping and laughing. She would lean over the bar batting her eyes at him, giving him a deliberate flash down her shirt.

“When do you get off?” he asked her with his winning smile. Desmond was an attractive young man, and while not as skilled as Ezio or as confident as Altaïr, he could certainly pull his own.

“Eleven,” she replied with a smile. “I’ll meet you out the back.”

At half-ten she disappeared, and Ezio had settled down with an armful of women who were practically pissing themselves laughing at some joke he’d made. Desmond went over to him.

“I’m leaving,” he shouted at Ezio above the music. “Will you be okay on your own?”

Ezio laughed. “ _Cuginetto!_ You know I will be! You go have fun, all right?” Ezio clapped a hand against Desmond’s back and the two parted ways. By the time Ezio had stopped singing drunkenly to Desmond, it was eleven o’clock. Desmond wasn’t too drunk; he could still walk in a straight line and his senses weren’t dulled yet. He’d been in this club before, so he knew his way to the back. A distinct smell of pot was wafting from the unisex bathrooms, and he wrinkled his nose. He’d tried it once: it made him sick for days afterwards.

The woman was waiting outside. Despite the late summer heat, the nights grew chilly and she wore a coat. A cigarette was clamped between her teeth, though it was not lit – Desmond seemed to have interrupted her just as she made to do so. He was thankful… he’d rather deal with the stale lingers of a cigarette than the blast of a fresh one.

“I didn’t catch your name, sweetie,” she said as they walked towards the exit. She slipped her arm through his, and he was glad to see that she was quite beautiful. She was tall and svelte, with thin legs and womanly curves and hair that didn’t look _too_ unbelievably bleached.

“Desmond,” he replied as she pulled her keys out of her bag and unlocked her car.

“Desmond,” she repeated in a crooning voice. “My name is Dana.”

 

Dana’s apartment was fifteen minutes’ drive – she led Desmond up by the hand. The kissing began in the elevator, the groping began in the hall, and once the door was locked safely behind them the clothes began to come off, leaving a trail from the door to the bedroom.

It was a stylish condo: her parents must have had quite a bit of money for her to be able to set herself up there. The furniture was stylish and expensive, but the whole place smelt of tobacco.

The sex was great. Desmond wasn’t as wasted as he would have like to have been, but it was enough so the sensations were amplified. She seemed quite satisfied with the performance Desmond gave her, and they both fell asleep in a drunken stupor.

 

 

Desmond woke up to the sound of his phone. It was still in the pocket of his jeans, and he had to trek to the doorway to retrieve them. Fishing out his phone, his heart leaped to his throat. It was his dad.

He could either let it ring out and risk having his father call the police, or he could pick up and face the music. Eventually he decided to opt for the latter.

“Desmond,” his father’s voice was firm, but not angry. “I’m not going to lecture you; you’re old enough now to be responsible for your actions. I’m only calling because one of your teachers has been phoning all morning trying to get to you. Come home, son, so he’ll stop calling.”

Desmond groaned, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was almost noon and he felt like shit. “Sorry, I’ll be there in a bit.”

He hung up, rubbing his face. He’d thought he hadn’t been that plastered… obviously he was wrong. He felt absolutely awful.

The crass smell of cigarette smoke suddenly assaulted his senses, and he turned to see Dana sitting up smoking. She smirked at him.

“Need a ride, honey?” she asked.

 

Desmond arrived at his house a little before noon. His father greeted him only with a knowing, half-amused look and a cup of coffee, which Desmond took gratefully and trudged up to his room. On the way there he picked up the landline and hit redial. His father rarely called anyone from the landline, unless it was Gavin, who never called on anything else. He let the phone ring, but it rang out. Desmond had the frustrated feeling that he was about to initiate a round of phone-tag, but thankfully the phone began to ring immediately after.

“Desmond Miles,” he answered in a flat ‘I’m hungover’ voice.

“Desmond! How nice to hear your voice so early in the morning.” Desmond wasn’t sure if Shaun was generally happy to hear his voice or if he was just being a sarcastic prick as usual. “I need to schedule an appointment with you to discuss your grades in my class. I’d prefer to do it as soon as possible; I’d rather get it over and done with quickly, wouldn’t you?”

Desmond grudgingly agreed. “Fine. When?”

“How about today? I can come to you or you can come to me… but by the sound of it, your father would love to see me bleeding right now, and I’d rather not cross him.”

“Uh… you want me to come to your place? Where do you live, anyway?”

Shaun sighed on the other end of the line. “Just give me your number and I’ll text you the directions.”

 

An hour later Desmond stood outside Shaun Hastings’s apartment. For someone who knew he was coming, Shaun was surprisingly slow at answering the door.

Eventually he did, and Desmond was admitted into the sitting room. There was a fireplace and lots of paintings and maps and books… the place was a mess, but it was a very neat mess. There were lots of teacups and there was a Union Jack cushion case on one of the armchairs.

“Now, Desmond,” Shaun cut straight to the chase, sitting down and pushing his glasses up his nose. Desmond sat down gingerly, careful not to knock anything over. “That test I sprung on you: would you like to know your result?”

Desmond nodded warily.

“Ninety-four percent. You aced that test, and I could see you barely even tried.”

_Ha_ , thought Desmond. _I knew you were watching me_.

He shrugged, not quite sure what to say. He focused intently on the Union Jack cushion instead.

“You were purposefully failing my class, Miles,” Shaun’s tone was sharp. “Why?”

Desmond blinked and averted his gaze to one of the many framed maps on the wall. “I wasn’t. Purposefully trying to fail, I mean.”

Shaun let out a sarcastic chuckle, folding his hands over his stomach. “Stop lying to me, Desmond. I’m not an idiot.”

Desmond reached up to scratch his neck sheepishly. “You’re a dick,” he muttered to himself. “What was I supposed to do?”

Shaun’s sharp ears caught every word, and he laughed. “You really are a dimwit.”

“Why do you always pick on _me_?” Desmond demanded, leaping to his feet in his defense. “What have I ever done to you?”

Shaun blinked. “I… well, nothing. You’re just too much of a good guy for your own good, you know. It makes you very easy to pick on.”

“Oh, right,” Desmond replied sarcastically, throwing his hands up in the air. “Because I’m a _good guy_ you’ve got to be an asshole to me, huh? How is that _fair_? And then you… you go and…” His anger faltered as he remembered. His cheeks flushed and he sat down again, caught between anger and a sudden, hard lust. He couldn’t even _look_ at him.

Shaun smirked, standing and sauntering over to where Desmond sat. The younger man swallowed as his gazes flickered over Shaun’s crotch. All he could think about was how he had fallen to his knees so readily the last time he’d found himself in such a situation. Slowly, Desmond got to his feet so he was eye-level to his history professor. Their bodies were a hair’s breadth apart, and they could feel each other’s breath against their lips. Desmond’s eyes flickered down to the decisive set of Shaun’s mouth, and he felt his ears tingle with heat.

“Wanker,” Shaun grumbled as he grabbed the back of Desmond’s neck and pulled him in for a long, hard kiss. Desmond knew, from his many nights of bar-hopping with his cousins, how to play a nice little game of tonsil hockey. Shaun was good, though, he had to admit. He felt the other man’s hands grab his hips and pull them flush against his own, pressing their quickly hardening groins together. A groan passed between them, but whose it was remained a mystery. Fingers fumbled with belts and buttons, material sliding over sweaty skin and tongues running over teeth. Shaun’s glasses lay askew on his nose, and so he pulled them off and threw them haphazardly onto the chair with the Union Jack cushion.

“Don’t you have air conditioning in here?” Desmond asked breathlessly as he came up for air. Shaun frowned at him.

“Not out here, but there’s some in my bedroom.”

Whether it was the truth or merely a seductive quip, Desmond just grinned and shrugged and entwined himself with the older man once more. He felt the planes of Shaun’s stomach through his pullover, and made quick work of pulling it off him.

“Keen little bugger, aren’t you?” was all Shaun managed to get out before he was pushed through his bedroom door and down onto his bed.

Desmond slid to his knees, unbuckling Shaun’s belt and undoing his fly before sliding his pants down his legs and disposing of them completely. He did the same to his boxers, and felt Shaun’s fingers run through his hair as he kissed the top of the Brit’s hard cock. He slid his tongue along the shaft, making a long lick from base to tip, before taking the whole thing into his mouth and sucking for all he was worth.

“No, no, stop,” Shaun snapped suddenly. His cock popped out of Desmond’s mouth, leaving the latter sitting confusedly on his haunches. “You need to go slower. Sucking like a fucking Hoover isn’t going to do anything.”

Desmond eyed him warily before slinking back down and repeating his actions, but slower. He was rewarded with a moan from above, and looked up to see Shaun’s head tipped back and his eyes closed. His hips began flexing of his own accord.

“Use your tongue more, and less teeth.”

Desmond tried: his tongue flicked about the underside of Shaun’s cock, and he made sure to keep his teeth well clear of the flesh. He had slept with a girl who had had a thing for biting once, and he hadn’t enjoyed it a bit. After a few minutes Shaun pushed his head up. His face was flushed and he was out of breath, but his eyes were clear and determined.

“I’m going to fuck you, Desmond,” he growled as he flipped his partner onto his back faster than Desmond would have thought possible. All he could manage was a surprised ‘huh’ before Shaun had his palm against his balls and was rubbing him in a way that nearly drove him mad. He moaned, abandoning all thought, all will to think, submitting totally to the man above him whom he had previously despised with every fibre of his being. All he knew were the marvelous sensations Shaun was giving him. His back arched as Shaun plunged into him, holding himself carefully and breathing shallowly. “God, you’re good.”

He began to fuck then, to really fuck. He rolled his hips instead of rutting like a bull, using them to make Desmond little more than a puddle of water. The two grunted and moaned like animals, not entirely sure who was making what noise; they didn’t especially care, either.

Shaun reached down to stroke Desmond’s cock, sinking his teeth into his shoulder and causing him to inhale sharply. Desmond scrabbled at his shoulders, his nails grazing Shaun’s pale back as he did so.

“Shaun,” gasped Desmond as his professor’s thrusts became sharper and longer. “Shaun, I’m gonna –,”

Shaun cut him off with his lips, muffling his long, loud groan. With the sudden change of pressure around his cock, Shaun felt his abdomen seize up and begin to boil. “Me too,” he panted, sweat beading on his brow and most other parts of his skin as well. “Me too.”

Throaty, rasping gasps filled the room along with a symphony of skin against skin, and they both struggled to get in air enough to let them breathe.

Shaun collapsed next to Desmond, momentarily looking the crisp composure that made him as intimidating and shitty as he was.

“I thought,” Desmond panted as he lay staring at the ceiling. “That you have air conditioning in here.”

“I do,” Shaun replied irritably after a few moments of getting his breath back. “But I never said it was _on_.”

Desmond smiled to himself as Shaun vaulted himself off the bed to go and fumble with the dial on the wall. The vents whirred to life, and cold hair hit Desmond’s clammy skin like rain after a drought. Shaun lay back down, putting his arms under his head and sighing heavily. “What have we gotten ourselves into?”

Desmond glanced at him. “Hopefully not a committed relationship.” His reply earned a snort of laughter from the man beside him.

“When I marked that test of yours, your result made my day. I hate to see my students fail, and to realize that you did it on purpose only made it worse.”

He hadn’t expected to hear such a candid confession, that was for sure. Desmond turned to look at Shaun, his eyebrows shooting up with surprise. “Seriously?”

Shaun nodded and sat up. His hair was mussed and he looked a little strange without his glasses. “I’ll make you a deal: you keep performing like that and I’ll never pick on you again. Agreed?” he held out his hand. Desmond sat up as well, taking it and shaking it.

“Deal.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Auditore women try to lift Ezio's mood, and Leonardo doesn't do much to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there may be some OOC-ness on Leonardo's part in this chapter. I'm also a bit ill so it might not be u to standards and there's more-than-likely lots of spelling/grammar mistakes too. Sorry >.

**XV: Ezio Auditore**

Maria Auditore and her daughter, Claudia, exchanged glances over the dining table. Their maid, Annetta, stood haplessly by them with her hands clasped before her. With a heaving sigh, Claudia got to her feet and smoothed down the skirt of her dress. She pursed her lips at her mother, who sat silently with prompting eyes, and turned on her heel. She pushed the door to the dining room open, leaving it ajar and stalking down the hall muttering under her breath.

_Stupid brother,_ she thought sourly as she picked up her skirts and took the stairs two at a time. Annetta had been sent upstairs three times in the last hour to fetch Ezio for dinner; Ezio had shut himself in his room earlier that afternoon and had refused to come out. It wasn’t like him to sulk or to brood, so his stormy mood had taken the household by surprise. Maria had noticed that he had been like this a lot lately – she wasn’t sure why he acted so, or what prompted it, but she was determined to find out and put a stop to it. She knew, however, that she would be unable to coax him out of his room, and so sent Claudia in her stead. Her nerves were weary after the events of her life, and the need for stronger, younger nerves was quite apparent: especially when dealing with somebody like Ezio.

Claudia did not try to hide her approach. It was difficult to make stomping noises on the marble floor of the villa, but she managed. She reached Ezio’s door and raised her fist, hammering against the surface.

“Ezio!” she barked, giving pause and waiting for a reply. When none came, she began her hammering again. If he was asleep she would wake him, and if he was ignoring her she would make him notice. “Ezio, _idiota,_ open the door!”

Still nothing. Claudia had been hounded by Duccio all day, leaving her in a mood almost as rotten as her brother’s. In the midst of her third knocking spree, she heard a sudden movement and, moments later, the door swung open.

“ _Dio mio_.” She almost laughed at him. Ezio stood, leaning against the doorway, with his dark hair lying straggled about his shoulders. He had the beginnings of stubble, a tell-tale sign of neglect, and he was still wearing the same clothes he had been wearing that morning. “You look terrible,” she commented, though unnecessary, bringing a hand to her mouth to hide her smile.

“ _Che cosa vuoi_?” he asked. Claudia assessed him with scrutinizing eyes, trying to diagnose what was wrong with him.

“I must speak with you,” she eventually said. Ezio didn’t seem as if he was at all ready to move from his current position, so she decided to tell him there. “Duccio – you know, the one from school? – he had been hounding me into the ground lately, _fratello_.” Her cheeks coloured suddenly. “He even tried to… you know…”

Ezio’s nostrils suddenly flared, his posture snapping bolt-upright. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. Claudia even saw the beginning of a smile.

“ _Sorella_ ,” he said, “When I am done, he will know not to mess with you again.”

Claudia flinched as he shut the door on her, leaving her standing alone in the hall. She almost groaned as she traipsed back downstairs to where her mother was waiting.

“What of Ezio?” Maria asked when her daughter entered. Claudia threw up her hands as she sat back down.

“If we were to wait for him we would be sitting down to breakfast, not dinner,” she replied with a sniff. “I told him of Duccio, and I believe he is climbing out of his window as we speak.”

Maria started. “Duccio? That vile boy? Claudia, do you really think –,”

“Mother,” Claudia interjected, “this will clear his mind. You know how Ezio is: I’d wager he will be back to normal by morning.”

Maria nodded wearily. “Of course. It is best not to interfere, I suppose. Come, let us eat.”

 

 

Ezio leaned against the wall of Duccio’s house. The pig – Claudia had been head-over-heels for him at one point… until she found out that he was dating a number of other girls at the same time. She broke off their relationship, but still he pursued her.

Ezio whistled and sang, “Duccio, Duccio, come out of your hole. I would speak with you.”

There was a frightened scuffle in the room above Ezio’s head – it sounded as if the inhabitant fell over a few times, too. After waiting a few moments, Ezio decided to get this whole business overwith.

Walls were not a problem for him. Able to grip a surface as thin as a piece of gum, Ezio was able to scale Duccio’s wall without breaking a sweat. He hung at the window for a little while, waiting until Duccio plucked up the nerve to lean out and check for intruders.

It was then Ezio swung up his fist, punching Duccio square in the jaw and knocking him back onto the floor. He vaulted himself over the window sill, then, and landed on the floor as light as a cat. Duccio scrambled away from him.

“I do not usually take advantage of talentless _cazzos_ like you, but I am willing to make an exception.” He kicked him until he squealed and spat at him.

“If your sister was not such a frigid bitch things might have been different!” Duccio snarled defensively, his features twisted into an angry mash of what might have been anger. Ezio snorted at this remark, bending down to grab Duccio by the front of his shirt and yank him to his feet, slamming him against the wall. Ezio put their faces very close together to make sure he was not misheard.

“Listen to me, you slimy little worm,” he growled. “You will leave my sister _alone_ , or God help me I will _pulverize_ you and feed you to your mother. She does not want you,” he banged Duccio’s head against the wall. “And you shall not _have_ her.” He repeated his action again, just for good measure. With a groan, Duccio pushed him away and staggered backwards. Ezio knew he’d gotten the message, and so he wasted no time in slipping out the window and off the property before anybody could call the cops.

Leonardo had been on his mind the entire afternoon. The artist’s unwillingness to accept Ezio had run the young man into a rut. Leonardo was being even more obstinate than Ezio could be, causing much frustration on the young man’s part. Sleeping with Leonardo was not the difficult part… no, it was quite simple to coax him into one bed or another. It was convincing him to acknowledge it that was difficult. It had come to a point where he would pointedly ignore Ezio when they were not completely alone: in class, in public, even in remotely secluded places Leonardo would look through Ezio as if he wasn’t even there.

It was crushing, really, and Ezio wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Even when they were alone, Leonardo would act jittery and flustered, and wooing him was becoming more difficult by the minute.

He thought about this while walking back to his villa. He had run to Duccio’s house, which was on the outskirts of the wealthy suburbs where Ezio lived, and so his stroll took him longer. He didn’t mind – it gave him valuable time and valuable silence. He had been on the way to devising a solution for this problem when Claudia had begun her assault on his door. She was clever, was Claudia; she had told him about Duccio on purpose, knowing that by doing so she would give him a chance to clear his mind. She was absolutely right.

When he got home, Ezio entered through the front door, greeting his mother and sister and picking up some snacks from the kitchen before making a beeline for his bedroom. He hit the lights, illuminating the entire room and went to run himself a bath.

He picked up his phone, taking out the charging jack. Desmond had tried to ring him again – the poor guy. Ezio could hear the distress in his voice the last time he called, but he’d been in his own little pickle then. He’d just about managed to seduce Leonardo when they’d been interrupted by Ezio’s phone, snapping the artist out of his lust-ridden reverie and back into the painful present. He’d upped and left almost immediately, leaving Ezio with an agonizing case of blue-balls and an armful of humiliation.

As Ezio got into his bath (he had an ensuite, of course), he picked up his phone. Leonardo was on speed-dial, and so he had the phone to his ear in two seconds flat, the dial tone trilling away.

It rang for so long Ezio began to think that he would never answer at all. But on the last ring the line connected, leaving Ezio to breathe a sigh of relief.

“Ezio?” came Leonardo’s voice, strained and forced. “What – do you not think it is a little too late to talk?”

Ezio pushed the food in his mouth into his cheeks in a bid to talk. “No,” he replied, his voice still somewhat muffled. “Listen, Leonardo, I have to talk to you.”

Perhaps he could hear the sincerity in his voice or perhaps he was just too tired, but either way Leonardo replied, “What’s wrong?”

“When are you free? I would see you in person.”

“But –,”

“We are just _talking_ , Leonardo, not fucking. If people see us conversing, what does it matter? You will not get fired for talking to me.”

Leonardo’s logical mind made sense of this. “You’re right. I’m free tomorrow at eleven o’clock.”

“ _Bene_ ,” replied Ezio. “How about that café on the corner of your street?”

“ _Certamente,_ ” replied Leonardo, still dubious. “I will see you then.”

“ _Va bene. Ciao._ ”

Ezio sat in his bath, his phone safely up near the basin, soaking and thinking about what the next day would bring.

 

Thank God he had set an alarm.

It went off at ten thirty the next morning, causing Ezio to reach out blindly and send things flying around his already cluttered room. It was only when he glanced at the time did he kick into gear. It was five to eleven by the time he did so.

“ _Madonna mia,_ ” he choked as he tumbled out of his bed, feeling around for pants that were relatively clean enough to wear. He went around picking shirts up off his floor and sniffing them until he found the one that stank the least, and then bathed himself in deodorant to obliterate any bad odours left. He scraped his hair back and crammed his feet into his shoes before shoving his keys, wallet and phone into his pockets. He then bounded down the stairs, nearly running headlong into Annetta in his flight. He yelled goodbye to anybody who was listening, managing to add where he was going.

He sprinted to the garage, backing out as speedily as he could without crashing, and zooming down the driveway.

Ezio was not stupid. He knew that if he were to get booked it would slow him down more than sticking to the speed limit would and so, not matter how much impatience grated on his nerves, he refused to speed. By the time he arrived at the café he had agreed to meet Leonardo at it was almost quarter past eleven, and he felt like a deflated balloon.

Leonardo was sitting at one of the tables on the terrace, the sun shining onto his hair and his long, dexterous hands. The rest of him was cast into shade.

“Leonardo,” panted Ezio as he jogged up to where the artist sat. “I am sorry I was late, I just…” he wet his mouth and finished with a hopeless flourish. “I overslept.”

Leonardo laughed. Ezio had looked so utterly lost and rueful that he couldn’t help but chuckle. “Ezio, it’s all right. _Per favore_ , sit.”

Ezio sat down gratefully. Leonardo crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands over his stomach, leaning back in his chair. “So, tell me. What is it you want to talk about?”

“You,” Ezio replied. Leonardo’s eyebrows pulled down into a frown, but he said nothing. “I need to talk about you. And me. Us. What’s going on with both of us.”

Leonardo immediately averted his gaze. “Ezio, I told you, public is not the best place to –,”

“Public is _just fine_ ,” Ezio corrected him firmly. “What are you so scared of, anyway? Unless we are _passionately making love_ , there is no reason to hide.”

A blush crept up Leonardo’s cheeks. Ezio wasn’t sure if it was anger or embarrassment, but he didn’t care. He waited for a response.

“ _Mi dispiace_ , Ezio,” Leonardo apologised as he stood. “I have somewhere I need to be.”

He then left Ezio sitting alone on the terrace, his fists balled on the table. “ _Fottiti,_ Leonardo,” he muttered to himself as he slunk back to his car.

 

For the rest of the day Ezio brooded. Maria and Claudia noticed that his mood was even worse than before, and Claudia felt both guilty and annoyed that her tactic had proved futile against the black cloud hanging above her brother’s head.

For the most part, he stuck to his room. He kicked aside the mess to make room to pace, keeping the lights off. It was his sanctuary, and he was alone. He could think.

Most of Ezio’s life had been spent planning attacks. From planning an assault on Cesare-fucking-Borgia to carefully planning seduction, Ezio knew how to set out a plan to absolute perfection. But this time nothing came. He had no plan, no idea.

His annoyance turned to insomnia. He had been getting next to no sleep for the last few weeks, and it was really taking its toll. His head thumped painfully and his body felt ten years older than it actually was.

Finally he could take it no more. He grabbed his keys, driving straight to the artist’s loft on the other side of town. He speeded, this time. He had nothing to lose.

He took the stairs instead of the elevator, bounding up two at a time until he came to Leonardo’s floor. Chest heaving from the exertion, he stalked down the hall and banged on Leonardo’s door.

When no reply came, he tried again. Same.

He sorted through the keys on his key ring until he found the one Leonardo had given him – the one he had forgotten to give back. He let himself into the apartment, closing the door behind him.

The place was silent, save for the swish of the ceiling fans and a strange whirring sound coming from one of the rooms. Whirring, buzzing…

Ezio followed the curious noise until he came to the door that led to Leonardo’s studio. He tried the door and found it unlocked. Cautiously, he opened it and entered.

“ _Dio mio_ ,” he whispered to himself.

The whirring and buzzing had become louder: the sounds were, indeed, coming from this room. The high windows shed light into the room, the drapes pinned back. There was a new sound, too: the muffled groans and gasps.

All Ezio could see was Leonardo’s back. He was wearing a loose white shirt that stuck to his spine from the sweat, his toes curling. He moved up and down, but only slightly; beneath him was a contraption that buzzed and whirred and was thrusting a phallus-shaped piece of rubber into him over and over again with relentless power. The thrusts were slow, steady, and Leonardo was groaning as he rolled his hips, his hands braced on his knees. Reaching down he fumbled with what looked like a dial, and the machine picked up pace, pounding into him without missing a beat. The buzzing and whirring got louder, and so did the noises Leonardo was making. Ezio had seldom seen a sight more erotic. He was rock hard in seconds, but frozen on the spot.

“Ohh, Ezio,” Leonardo groaned as he arched his back, increasing the pace of his machine. Ezio’s cock twitched at the sound of his name, and his hand tightened on the door handle.

“Ezio, _sì_ ,” Leonardo moaned again, louder this time. The next moment, Ezio became unstuck and found himself able to move. He crept around the side of the bench, and was surprised to see Leonardo’s eyes wide open and fixed on one of the windows overlooking the street. Suddenly everything fell into place.

He walked numbly back to the doorway, unsure whether to leave or to stay. Eventually he chose the latter.

He could see Leonardo getting close. He then spoke the man’s name. It rumbled deep in his chest like thunder, rolling off his lips like silk. Leonardo shuddered, stilling and climaxing unbelievably, despite almost being scared half to death.

“E-Ezio!” the artist stammered as he practically tripped over himself getting down off the bench and shielding the contraption. “What are you doing here?”

“I never would have guessed,” Ezio remarked, ignoring the question completely. “I was completely wrong, the whole time!”

“H-how do you mean?”

“You weren’t afraid of being caught out. You wanted to be. The notion of it excites you.”

Leonardo’s face flushed a deep red. “That’s not true!” he insisted. Ezio folded his arms, knowing that it was. “I am glad, though,” he confessed. “I thought _I_ was the problem.”

It was Leonardo’s turn to laugh. “You? Ezio, no. I can see how hard you are trying.”

Ezio grimaced, casting his gaze up at one of the windows and rolling his shoulders back for a moment before approaching the artist with quick strides.

He took Leonardo’s face in his hands and kissed him, chaste at first. Soon the kisses became deeper, longer, and Leonardo wound his arms about Ezio’s waist. Running his hands through the older man’s hair,  Ezio smiled against the lips against his and said, “I heard you calling my name.”

Leonardo started, but could not move far due to being trapped between Ezio and the bench. It was in that moment Leonardo decided to show the young Italian just who he was dealing with.

He slipped Ezio’s belt off, his fingers playing over his fly. Ezio had time only to chuckle before his partner took his hands, bringing them down and together. After belting them together he goaded the young Italian into hopping up on the workbench as Leonardo undid his fly. Ezio saw only Leonardo’s blue eyes before he felt a warm hand on his semi-hard cock, fumbling expertly. It was only a matter of time before lips replaced fingers. With his hands bound behind him he couldn’t reach down to seize Leonardo’s hair – he was, it seemed, completely vulnerable. Leonardo was in control now.

Just as he was about to reach a shuddering climax, Leonardo popped off his now rock-hard cock and slid his hands up Ezio’s thighs and up over his hips. He trailed his thin fingers over his partner’s stomach, over his shirt, and pushed at his chest. “Lay back, _amore,_ ” Leonardo murmured with a faint smile, and Ezio immediately submitted and lay back against the bench. Leonardo had ridded himself of his shirt and now straddled Ezio’s hips glistening with sweat. He reached down to Ezio’s cock, playing with it and teasing him until he bucked his hips upwards, yearning for friction. Leonardo only laughed and slid his own length along Ezio’s.

“And what about your little toy?” asked Ezio breathlessly, nodding at the contraption. Leonardo cast a glance over his shoulder before turning back and smiling.

“I have something much more fun to play with now.”

His words were accompanied by a moan: he had pushed two fingers up into his entrance – he continued this for only a while before sinking blissfully down onto Ezio’s cock.

“Fuck,” Ezio moaned, longing to grab Leonardo and pound him, but being unable to do so; Leonardo was able to move at his own leisurely pace, rolling his hips enough to make Ezio lose track of his thoughts but not so much as to bring him to any kind of orgasm. Leonardo’s eyes were fixed on his, watching him, scrutinizing him. His lips were flushed, wet, and slightly parted, and he was breathing hard despite his seemingly composed expression.

“Leonardo… please, Leonardo, I need…” Ezio choked, his entire body aching with need. His partner smiled, waiting for one more whimper from Ezio, whereupon he began to bounce up and down almost fervently. He seemed glad to be doing so, too: there was a certain relief that flooded his face, an expression of unadulterated, sublime ecstasy that accompanied riding Ezio’s cock hard and fast. Ezio began to groan, just as relieved as Leonardo was, thrusting his hips up to meet Leonardo’s with every thrust.

The sex was short and sweaty and heartfelt; Leonardo soon let out a throaty moan and slammed himself down until he sat square on Ezio’s hips, his own hips quivering as he came all over their stomachs. As his insides twitched spasmodically, Ezio was pushed over the edge and felt himself release deep inside the artist. He moaned loudly, gladly, and sucked in air by the lungful. The leather biting into his skin had made it all the more exciting, and Leonardo’s willingness made him so much sexier.

“Leonardo,” Ezio panted, finally gaining the will to remove the belt himself. “ _Ti amo_.”

Leonardo was silent. He eased himself up off Ezio’s softening cock and lay down on the bench next to him, his chest rising and falling with each stiff breath. Ezio was a little perturbed by his silence: usually, when he told someone he loved them, they replied immediately with an ‘I love you too’. Leonardo, on the other hand, was perfectly silent. He looked somber, having slipped back into his solemn disposition; Ezio watched him closely, and after a short while he suddenly smiled and turned his head to look at the man lying next to him.

“What would you say,” Ezio began slowly, “to a… monogamous relationship? With… with me?”

Leonardo did not speak – Ezio’s face collapsed into a frightened puppy-like look (unconscious to him), and Leonardo laughed and said, “I would say that I would be very… very happy to do that – as long as it’s… under the radar. _Capite_?”

Ezio’s chest swelled with delight, and he broke out into a broad grin, rolling over and hugging the artist to him as tight as he could. “ _Certamente_.”


	16. Moving Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kadar has an idea that includes him, Malik, and a lot of boxes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys - this chapter's pretty short and not very smutty and probably has a lot of mistakes because I'm very tired. I'm infinitely sorry for this downward spiral this story had been going in: school has been stretching me very thin and I'm really running out of steam.  
> On another note, thanks a bunch to BIOHAZARDSEED for translating the story into Chinese!! You can read it [here](http://mtslash.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=107696&page=1&extra=#pid2007210)

**XVI: Malik Al-Sayf**

How did he get here?

How did he, Malik Al-Sayf, end up in Altaïr ibn-La’Ahad’s squalid little apartment in such a shady part of town? An apartment that looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned for years and that stank of stale cigarette smoke and weed? What had he been _thinking_? Many thoughts rushed through Malik’s head as he stood in the middle of Altaïr’s apartment – Altaïr, of all people! – and those were certainly the most prominent. The only thing that remedied the sight and the smell of the place was Altaïr himself, who was being surprisingly genial (and also wasn’t wearing much more than a pair of track pants).

“Want a beer?” Altaïr asked him as he wandered into the grimy kitchen. Malik looked at him incredulously.

“It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”

“I know,” Altaïr replied as he cracked open a can. He took a long sip, his amber eyes still glued on Malik. “How’d you go with Kadar?”

Malik flushed, completely against his will. He had the dignity, at least, not to look away. “It went fine,” he said stiffly. Altaïr smirked at him, and Malik knew he could tell exactly what happened.

Malik had given this trip a lot of thought: both he and Kadar had deliberated this event, and it – quite honestly – made Malik very nervous. If he had had his way he wouldn’t have been on speaking terms with Altaïr, and he certainly wouldn’t have been standing in the middle of his apartment. But, of course, Malik’s brother had dictated otherwise. It had all started with a rather strange and disgustingly alluring comment made by Kadar a morning or two ago. It had been about seven o’clock on Thursday morning, and Kadar had been standing ponderously at the kitchen island with a piece of toast, when he suddenly said, “Altaïr should come and live with us.”

Malik had almost choked on his coffee at that point. He spluttered, demanding an explanation to such a ridiculous comment. Kadar had turned to him with a crumpled brow and a very serious expression, obviously not appreciating his brother’s reaction.

“Don’t you know? He’s an orphan, Mal, and he lives downtown. _Downtown_ downtown. We have more than enough room here… don’t you think it would be… I don’t know… decent?”

They had dropped the subject shortly after, and Malik had been subjected to two days of classes with Altaïr; each time he looked at him he couldn’t help but think of Kadar’s idea. And so, Malik had given it a lot of thought. He had asked Kadar if he was serious, to which Kadar replied he most certainly was, and he had spent both Thursday and Friday night pacing tracks into his carpet trying to figure out whether or not _he_ thought it was a good idea. The end result was Malik standing in Altaïr’s apartment, fully regretting his decision.

“So…” Altaïr tried to pick up the conversation, “why are you here?”

 _God,_ Malik thought, ignoring him, _this place is a dump. Kadar was right._

“Malik?”

“Do you want to live with us?”

Altaïr’s eyebrows shot up so high Malik expected them to disappear into his hairline. His scarred lips parted slightly in shock, and his whole body went still. “What?”

 _Fuck_ , Malik cursed himself for letting his guard down – why did he have to say that way? He could have been witty – he could have even been kind – but instead he blurted out something stupid and would surely – surely! – pay the price for it.

Altaïr didn’t burst out laughing, at least. He just cautiously placed the can of beer down, his gaze steady, and asked, “Are you being serious?”

Malik finally looked away. He almost smiled. “It was… it was Kadar’s idea.”

Altaïr scoffed. “Of course it was – you’d never suggest something like that.”

Malik clenched his teeth. “Don’t make me punch you.” He then paused. “Altaïr… I need to tell you something. And I’d like that beer, if it isn’t too late.”

Altaïr tossed him a can. Malik cracked it open without any further preamble. “Look,” he began again, determined not to make himself look like any more of a fool. “Kadar pointed out to me that you live… here,” he gestured to the apartment around him, “and that some thug is always on your tail. So I thought – I mean he thought – that it would be a good idea – not that it was my idea – if you came… came to live… with us.”

Malik was a little angry that Altaïr had even allowed him to finish. Altaïr ibn-La’Ahad wasn’t one to let someone finish their sentences at the best of times, and he wasn’t enough of a dick to leave someone in an awkward situation. Except Malik, it seemed.

“Sure.”

It was then Altaïr’s face broke out into a strange, genuine smile: Malik hadn’t seen him smile like this before. It was fiendish, nor was it lecherous… it was just a happy smile. “So when do we start?”

 

Two days later, on the Saturday, Malik had shepherded Kadar to Altaïr’s apartment to help him move. Malik still wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to any of this in the first place. Kadar was a bouncing ball of energy, all smiles and excitement. “Bro, this is gonna be _so cool_!” he would exclaim every so often.

When they arrived Altaïr admitted them willingly; Malik noticed his mood was quite different from usual. Before long they all rolled up their sleeves and got to work on the boxes.

If Malik was shocked by one thing he found in Altaïr’s apartment, it would have been the books. There were boxes and boxes of them – he had never expected Altaïr to read so much. Of course, they were almost balanced out by the amount of porn magazines found in the bathroom, but Malik tried not to think of that. The young man was seized by some kind of unfathomable glee… it was a little strange to see Altaïr acting that way. But it made Malik kind of happy.

“Christ, Kadar, watch it!” Altaïr barked as Kadar swerved around him with a box in his arms that was so large that he had to crane his neck to see over it.

Soon, after much to-ing and fro-ing from Altaïr’s house to Malik’s, the three of them stood on the threshold of Malik’s house, their bodies framed by the soft dusk light. Kadar yawned widely, tucking himself to Altaïr’s side. Altaïr patted his head and caught Malik’s eye, smiling.

The three wandered inside, closing the door against the dawning chill of the early autumn evening. Kadar immediately got on his PlayStation, inviting Altaïr to join him, his voice bouncing with excitement.

“C’mon, come _on_ , play with me! Malik’s too much of an ass to ever want to play!” Kadar whined, rocking back and forth on his haunches as he sat down on the carpet. Altaïr laughed.

“All right, calm down,” he sat himself down next to Kadar, taking the controller from him.

“‘… to much of an ass,’” Malik muttered to himself as he sauntered towards the kitchen. “What was I thinking?”

But, as he stood stirring his coffee, he didn’t regret what he had done. He didn’t regret the decisions he had made. To him, it seemed like the right thing to do; Altaïr’s subtle change in attitude had told him as much. He found himself smiling slightly before he made sure to frown instead. He still fucking hated the kid. And he wasn’t gay!

He suddenly noticed the silence. Placing down his mug he peered into the living room. “…fuck.”

Kadar’s eyes were squeezed closed, Altaïr’s hands having slipped up under his shirt and his lips kissing along the ridge of Kadar’s shoulder. _Christ,_ Malik thought, _he just cannot keep it in his pants._

And then Altaïr looked at him, his eyes a smouldering, salacious amber. Even against Kadar’s neck Malik could see him smile, beckoning.

But, of course, Malik had more self-control than that and would of certainly not given Altaïr the satisfaction: he’d already granted him one favour. Altaïr certainly wasn’t stupid, and he noticed exactly what Malik was thinking… he also noticed the slight twitch of his hips and the colouring of his cheeks, as well. He only smirked and returned his attention to Kadar.

Malik had no intention to watch Altaïr fuck his brother: he knew it was only a matter of time before he decided to join in himself, and that was not going to happen.

 

Kadar had dragged himself to bed, smiling tiredly after being well and truly fucked. Altaïr sat on the sofa, his arms stretched out.

“I trust you enjoyed yourself?” Malik asked, if not a little venomously. Altaïr looked at him flatly. His fly was still undone.

“You let me live with you – you can’t start talking to me like that.”

Malik walked over so he stood before him. “This is my house – I can talk to you however I want,” he snapped. Altaïr got to his feet, stepping uncomfortably close to Malik. He picked that almost finished cup of coffee from Malik’s hands and placing it safely on the table beside the sofa before leaning in and pressing their lips together.

Malik groaned – he couldn’t help it. Altaïr took his groan as an invitation to take Malik by the waist and press their bodies together.

“I get to sleep in your bed, right?”  Altaïr breathed hotly in Malik’s ear. Malik didn’t reply and only recaptured Altaïr’s lips, the two falling onto the sofa in a tangle of limbs. Altaïr’s fingers worked fervently at the buttons on his shirt before he settled for tearing it open and throwing it on the floor. He ran his fingers over Malik’s chest, nails scraping along the clammy skin. Malik hissed at Altaïr’s fingernails, and tugged Altaïr’s shirt over his head before beginning on his jeans.

“Hold on,” Altaïr said suddenly, slipping out from underneath him and causing his groin to throb painfully.

“Are you seriously…?” Malik began, but Altaïr held up his hand. His expression was serious.

“Listen to me, Malik,” Altaïr said solemnly, “why did you do this?”

Malik just looked at him. “What?”

“Why did you invite me to live with you? At first I thought it was a joke – and I know you love Kadar, but there’s no way this was all his idea.” Altaïr smirked again, but it didn’t have the usual edge to it. “Mal, I have to tell you something.”

“What?”

“I think I love you.”

Malik blinked. “You what?” His question was met only with a rather blank stare.

“I love you.”

Altaïr frowned, leaning in to rest his forehead against Malik’s. “I know I gave you a hard time. I know I was a dick. But… I’ve changed, I swear it.”

Malik cupped his face and kissed him. He hated Altaïr, he did, but something had changed. Something that was… almost admirable. He had been right in saying that Altaïr had changed. And maybe… maybe he wasn’t so bad.

Altaïr kissed him back, hopeful to hear the words returned to him. Slowly, hands returned to skin and flies were undone. There was nothing hot or heavy or angry – Altaïr was suddenly tender, his kisses chaste and warm. He slid between Malik’s legs, using his lips and his tongue before moving up to kiss Malik again. It was Malik’s nails that were scraping now, his abdomen flexing with each of Altaïr’s thrusts. His throat constricted between his moans, and he felt Altaïr’s thrusts pick up pace.

“Shit,” Malik grunted as Altaïr reached down between their bodies. “God, Altaïr, I love you.”

Altaïr groaned into the crook of Malik’s neck, stilling.

As they both came down from their blissful high, Malik didn’t push Altaïr off him. Altaïr lay strewn on top of him, their bodies slick with sweat.

“Do you, though?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you actually love me?”

“Of course I do. What a stupid question.”

Altaïr smiled and leaned in close, kissing Malik one more time before they drifted into a peaceful slumber.

As for Malik... well, perhaps he was a little bit gay.


	17. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Differences are settled and weapons laid down, and everybody finds their peace with the ones they love.

**XVII: Epilogue**

It was almost the end of school. Summer had blown away into a biting autumn, the leaves clinging to the boughs of trees and the entire town splashed with gold and red. Everyone had dug out their winter clothes to fight against the chill breeze that seemed to blow perpetually down the leafy avenues.

For Desmond, autumn wasn’t exactly what he would call a time for a ‘new start’, as it were, but the change brought an implicit promise of improvement. After his and Shaun’s previous escapades, Desmond had come to the (albeit dubious) conclusion that there was _some_ merit in trying and partaking in his history classes. And so he decided to do just that, to see if he could manage, if nothing else. The day in Shaun’s apartment seem to have broken the ice, to have smoothed out their rocky relationship. Instead of constantly looking for ways to piss each other off, they managed to find civil conversation… and rather sly looks.

By the end of the semester, Desmond was pleased to find he had sprung to the top of his history class with an almost perfect score. Out of everybody, his father had seemed most surprised. Dumbstruck, he looked at the report card, then at his son, and then back at the report card. He couldn’t understand it! When had Desmond excelled like this? On one hand, Bill felt mildly guilty. He’d been so focussed on his work that he hadn’t had time for Desmond – he’d barely seen him since school had resumed after the summer. However, something big had happened and he found himself with quite a lot of free time on his hands, and he resolved to use it to repair the broken relationship he had with his son. And so he did.

When asked ‘why’ Desmond had done so well in his classes, he would merely shrug and say that he realised the importance of it all. This wasn’t the full truth. In reality, Desmond’s attitude towards school had not changed. He would still fake being sick to get out of it, he would still skip class every now and again, and there were more than a few teachers who would gladly label him as ‘annoying’. Desmond’s driving force was Shaun.

“Miles!”

Desmond looked up from where he was scratching into the desk. It was almost the end of the day – surely he could spare ten minutes to fuck around, right? Shaun leaned over the desk, his curled fists braced upon it, looking over the top of his glasses at him. There were a few amused chuckles around him.

“Yeah?”

Shaun looked annoyed at the response. “What are you doing?”

Desmond shrugged noncommittally. “Nothing.”

“Right. Nothing. Well, Mr Miles, it you’re not doing anything perhaps you’d appreciate a detention.”

Shaun’s snappy remark made absolutely no sense to anybody, but it didn’t really have to. It was common knowledge that it was Shaun’s favourite pastime to give the Miles kid detentions… but they didn’t know sometimes Desmond acted like a dick for that exact reason. Desmond scowled into the top of his desk as Shaun returned to his last few minutes of teaching.

The sound of the bell was like a divine symphony to the student body: a Friday afternoon, now completely theirs.

Shaun stood against his desk, his arms folded over his chest, watching his students file out noisily. Desmond still sat at his desk, brows creased in a frown. He received a few encouraging looks from his classmates, but other than that nobody even noticed him. When the door closed, the room became turgid with silence. Shaun looked over to Desmond, his face opening up into a crooked grin. He reached out to the door, flicking the lock shut.

Three or four times a week this would happen – Desmond would be given a detention notice and would have to stay behind after class. The afternoon would transform to sharp words (said to gratify any passers-by) to a hot, sweaty tangle of limbs and tongues. This seemed to be the direction this particular afternoon was going in, too. Shaun approached him, and Desmond stood to his full height before grasping the front of Shaun’s shirt and dragging him forward for a hard kiss. It was difficult for both of them to go through a period or two talking about the attitudes toward homosexuality in ancient Rome and Greece – Shaun especially, seeing as Desmond was set on making eyes at him the entire time from his spot at the back of the class.

Mostly, Desmond and Shaun _did_ just sit and chat. They’d discovered – strangely enough – that they _did_ happen to enjoy each other’s company, and often that was good enough for them. Even so… sometimes there was an aching, mutual need between the two of them that resulted in hot, messy sex. But Shaun revelled the most in Desmond’s smile – he was so used to earning only a scowl from the young man that seeing a wide, honest smile was the most beautiful thing in the world.

“Uh… Shaun?” Desmond asked tentatively after a particularly satisfying fuck that afternoon. Shaun didn’t look up from tying his tie, only grunting in response.

“Would it be weird if I said I… I liked you? Like, I _like_ like you?”

Shaun did look up, then. “ _Like_ like me?” he asked and watched as Desmond’s expression broke out in doubt. “Desmond, look at yourself.”

Hesitantly, Desmond looked down at himself: his jeans were open, his torso completely bare. He returned his eyes to Shaun’s, who had finished his tie and had perched his glasses on his nose. “You’re half bloody naked; we just had blood-curdling sex on that desk and you ask if it’s weird if you _like_ like me?”

Desmond noticed Shaun’s old customary vocal twinge of annoyance. “Well, I mean I just – I didn’t think that –,”

Shaun burst out laughing. “Desmond, by God! No, it isn’t weird. You know, I kind of like like you too.”

“R-Really?”

“Sure. I mean, I’m not supposed to fraternize with students, but you’ve only got one semester of school left, so what’s the point?”

The nonchalance in Shaun’s voice was enough to numb Desmond’s tongue. How could he act so… indifferent? Shaun shrugged at him, turning away, and Desmond notices a dusting of pink over his cheeks. Was he embarrassed?

“Stop wearing that goofy fucking grin, Miles,” Shaun snapped irritably; Desmond hadn’t noticed himself staring. Despite Shaun’s annoyance, he leaned towards Desmond and gave him a kiss, and Desmond swore he had never felt happier.

* * *

 

“Shit, are you serious?”

“ _Sì_ , I am serious. But you can’t tell anybody – _nobody._ Understand?”

“A-absolutely. But I mean… you, Ezio Auditore, the notorious playboy who has slept with ‘every girl worth sleeping with’, in a relationship with a guy? A _monogamous_ relationship?”

Ezio grimaced at his cousin – Altaïr could be considerate at times, but now was certainly not one of them. Dismissively, Ezio waved his hands about. “Do you have to act like such a _cazzo_? If I didn’t tell you, I would have burst and let slip to my _mother_ , and God knows how that would have ended!”

Altaïr seemed amused at the thought – Ezio didn’t appreciate that.

“I don’t know why I tell you these things,” Ezio exclaimed at last, getting to his feet and making to leave the small café where Altaïr had agreed to meet him. The Syrian grabbed his arm, stopping it before he could. When Ezio turned he was surprised to see a sudden warm earnest in Altaïr’s eyes.

“I’d glad for you, honestly,” Altaïr said, his words reflected in his voice. “And I promise it’s our secret. Good luck.” He held out his hand, and Ezio took it with a wide grin, pulling his cousin into a brief hug before setting out into the street.

Evening was falling, brisk and cool – the autumn days were dangerous, it seemed, as the days feigned warmth and concealed the biting chill of the evenings. Plus, Ezio hadn’t brought a coat.

He began down the street, his hands in his pockets, watching a stone skitter across the pavement as he kicked it about. He thought of his cousins and their acceptance of his relationship with Leonardo – it was no mystery that both Desmond and Altaïr were in very similar situations and had their own problems, but despite the constant complaining, it was kind of nice to have someone to whom he could relate. He thought of his sister and his mother, and how hilariously outraged they would be should they ever find out – Ezio began to devise plans concerning which way of finding out would shock them the most. And then he thought of Leonardo – Leonardo, who had been there for him all these years: when Cristina had left, when his father had been in an accident – the man was like a rock to Ezio, even though it didn’t seem like it. For once, Ezio’s feelings went deeper than supercilious carnal lust. Instead of only wanting to get into Leonardo’s pants, Ezio wanted to instead remove them, do their business, and then put them back on again. He cared for Leonardo – he cared for him more than he had cared for any of his partners before. It… it almost appeared as if Leonardo had begun to rival Cristina.

Ezio stopped dead in the middle of the pavement. Cristina… what a beautiful girl she had been. Her parents were prestigious and the two had lived in the same neighbourhood when they were younger; Ezio and his brother had gone to a nearby market to scout out the ‘talent’, and Ezio had spotted her and was instantly enamoured. After a rather awkward introduction, the two had become intimate and very much in love. Until… until Ezio had to leave. Without notice. She was so _angry_ when he had come back to find her… she was with another man, someone her parents approved of… it broke Ezio’s heart, but he knew it would be better for her. So he left her, only to watch as she’d been wounded in an attack by thugs. He had killed all of those men, but it hadn’t saved her.

Ezio passed a hand over his face. He missed her, certainly… but he found that his chest no longer ached with the utter need of her. It wasn’t as if he had betrayed her… no. That wasn’t it. Leonardo had filled a hole in his heart that no other woman could have, not even those who had a striking resemblance to Cristina.

As he resumed walking, Ezio grudgingly mulled over Leonardo being a substitute for Cristina – no matter how much he thought it over, it never seemed right. He couldn’t fathom Leonardo being a replacement for _anybody_ , let alone Cristina, to whom he bore next to no resemblance. He was far too original, too quirky, to be a substitute for another. He smiled at the thought.

The lights of the Auditore villa appeared up ahead, snapping Ezio out of his reverie and prompting him to break out into a brisk jog to beat the cold.

 

Leonardo watched in fascination as Ezio held up his hands, palms out, towards the throng of young women about him. Their faces were inquisitive, with wide eyes and pursed lips, and they were speaking to him all at once and creating a strange symphony of high voices.

Ezio had gotten his straggly split-ends cut – his mother had dragged him to the hairdresser with the help of Claudia, and now his hair shone with cleanliness, held back by his customary faded red band. Aside from his haircut, which didn’t really look much different, he must have been scrubbed because he smelled _fantastic_. Ezio, what with the amount of running around he did, was never completely clean. It was a novelty, and had attracted nearly every single girl in each of his classes. He was in his art class now, cornered by a vicious gaggle of females, looking over the tops of their heads to Leonardo who sat behind his desk a little confused but very much amused.

“I – uh – it was my mother, you know?” he tried to explain, though he was constantly talked over.

“Ezio, you didn’t call me! You promised you would!”

“Yeah, you never replied to my message!”

Ezio’s face flushed slightly as questions were pressed forward. Leonardo was intrigued – Ezio had been neglecting girls? Ezio had the uncommon talent of being able to keep women sated without meeting them in person, and he did so without any effort: so the question begged _why_ had Ezio been so… lazy? What had occupied his mind _so much_ that he had forgotten? Leonardo couldn’t help but grin at Ezio, who struggled not to smirk back.

“I have a girlfriend!” Ezio announced, making sure he was heard. A unanimous screech went up.

“What?!”

“Since when?”

“Oh my God, the whore!”

Leonardo looked up in surprise, but a single glance to the Italian’s face made it expressly clear what he was doing.

“ _Sì_ , in _Italia_. I promised her I would be only with her. _Mi dispiace!_ ”

Ezio had never heard a sound like it. The girls melted away from him like a glacier in summer with a low, rumbling groan. Ezio stayed stock still until they had all turned their attention elsewhere, only then going to his seat. This new sense of freedom was great: he didn’t have the obligation to coddle any of his paramours or tell them things he didn’t believe – he needed only to focus his attention on one person. It was liberating.

Leonardo began to take the roll, and Ezio’s name was the first one he called. There was a slight twinge of affection, though not notable enough to be suspicious – Ezio still smiled.

He still had difficulty – at times – convincing Leonardo that their relationship was going to work out. Leonardo was still strict with their public interactions: they couldn’t be seen together too much, they could never _ever_ kiss in public, and _especially_ no groping, not even on crowded trains or buses. Absolutely not. Private-Leonardo was worlds different to Public-Leonardo: Ezio unearthed an enormous affection in Leonrdo. The man was a cuddler, and loved to snuggle into Ezio’s shoulder or lay down in his lap when they were alone. Maria Auditore never found her son’s frequent visits to Leonardo’s to be strange, and so Ezio made the most of it. Some days they would spend hours chatting or watching movies or cuddling on the sofa, snoozing in the afternoon sun. Other times they would fuck wildly for hours, trying out new positions and testing out new rooms: Ezio wanted to try it on the kitchen counter and against the window, and Leonardo was more than happy to comply with any of his partner’s wishes. The taut Leonardo only showed himself in public, now – in private he was as bad as a schoolgirl. But Ezio loved him for it, and for the first time in a very long while he felt full and satisfied with life.

* * *

 

Life in the Al-Sayf household was a funny one.

There was Malik, the steely-hearted teacher who took absolutely _nobody’s_ shit (especially not Altaïr’s) and understood the importance of one’s actions. Then there was Kadar, Malik’s clever but naïve little brother who didn’t have the discretion his older sibling had and would have followed Malik off a cliff in devotion. Then there was Altaïr, the insensitive prick who had caused the accident that had claimed Malik’s arm and almost Kadar’s life.

Malik had found out about Altaïr’s part in that accident completely by mistake one day in late October. Altaïr had been living with them for a number of weeks by then, and was becoming almost agreeable. Kadar absolutely loved him, as he would sit down for hours and play video games and go hiking and riding and do all the things with him that Malik was unable to do. The cold winds of autumn had summoned a particularly nasty chill, and Altaïr had adopted a white hoodie to fend against the incoming winter. It had been late in the evening, when the air was blue punctured only by the orange needles of the street lamps lining the streets, when Malik had found out.

Kadar had been upstairs in his bedroom working on his homework – Malik hadn’t heard a sound from him all afternoon. Altaïr had gone to meet with his cousins in a café in town and wasn’t due back for a while yet. And so Malik stationed himself at the dining room table with a cup of coffee and a stack of unmarked papers, deciding to take advantage of the silence while he could. He was about half-way through marking the papers and three-quarters done with his coffee when he looked up and out the window.

His blood went cold. He whipped off his glasses, his heart picking up pace in his chest. This wasn’t a momentary horror – it lasted impossibly long, drawing out every single good feeling he had left in him. His mind snapped back to that godawful night with the man in the white jacket running across the road –

Malik stood up so violently his chair fell over, making a dash for the door and running out onto the street. By God, he was right. It was the very same man.

“Altaïr,” Malik croaked, his throat constricted with an ineffable fury and a sadness for the fact that his opinion of Altaïr – who had been trying so hard to make a good impression – was whittled away. Altaïr couldn’t have possibly heard him, but he looked up anyway, and smiled when he saw Malik standing transfixed in the middle of the road. As he got close enough to see the expression on Malik’s face, his eyes filled with dread.

“Malik,” Altaïr said slowly, the sound of his voice causing Malik to see red. Now in reach, Malik lashed out and punched Altaïr across the jaw.

“You sick bastard!” Malik cried. “You were the bastard who ran across the road and caused that whole fucking accident!”

Altaïr’s face read that he was clearly aware of the situation. He had known he’d caused that accident, but he had never told anybody, never turned himself in. He had run.

“I was chasing somebody, he had something really important –,”

“I don’t _care_ what your excuse is! You almost cost Kadar his _life_ , does that mean nothing to you?”

Altaïr flipped back his hood, his amber eyes filled with grief. He had no idea how to handle the situation. Malik just stood before him, simmering with a fiery rage, his teeth clamped shut against all sorts of curses.

“I’m sorry, Mal. I am.”

After that fight, Malik had kicked Altaïr out. Kadar had been horrified, but had forgiven Altaïr immediately, knowing that he hadn’t done it on purpose. Kadar’s blind forgiveness made Malik think about it, trying to push aside his anger to look upon the whole predicament with a level head. So far it wasn’t working.

Malik paced most of the night: back and forth, back and forth, scratching his chin in thought, replaying the scene over and over again. A part of him kept trying to find a loop-hole in the memory, some way of proving Altaïr innocent of this monstrous crime. But he couldn’t. Altaïr had done this out of his own misjudgement, plain and clear.

_Surely it made you a better person? Developed your character?_ argued one side of him.

_He did it on purpose. Just kill him and dispose of the body!_ the other side shot back.

Purpose. Purposefully? No. Altaïr had been a right dick back then, playing women and beating up weaker, younger students. He’d hung out with the wrong crowd, he’d been influenced by the wrong man. Malik thought of the Altaïr he had confronted in the street: the Altaïr that had taken that punch and turned the other cheek, the Altaïr who had opted for words instead of violence. He had seen him act with discretion and decorum, he had seen him think about things before acting. Altaïr had changed – that much was patently clear. Malik’s logical mind found it hard to judge a man for what he was, not what he is. And so he decided to forgive him.

Altaïr hadn’t had anywhere else to go, and so he had sat in the gutter all night, his hoodie in a crumpled pile next to him. If that thing was going to rouse such awful memories, then he wouldn’t wear it. Not even if it was freezing, he wouldn’t put it on.

Malik had come out and deposited a black jacket on his head. “Come on, you ass, get inside before you catch pneumonia.”

Altaïr had never been so relieved. Malik treated him with the same no-nonsense attitude, the same indifference, and that was all Altaïr could have asked for. Malik noticed his humility, and decided that Altaïr was much better man than he had been when they had met.

Near Christmas, Kadar transferred interstate to study at a different school on an exchange plan, leaving Altaïr to bicker and argue to their hearts’ content… he also left them to cuddle in bed and snooze late into the winter mornings, snuggling into one another for warmth. The two of them still fought like age-old enemies, and they’d have it no other way.

 

The end.


End file.
